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DRAMATIC WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKSPE ARE 

WITH REMARKS ON HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS, 

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



In One Volume, with Portrait, Vignette, and Index, price 24s. cloth, 

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THE 



WORKS 



CHARLES LAMB. 




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THE 



WORKS 



OF 



CHARLES LAMB 



A NEW EDITION. 



LONDON: 
EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 



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CONTENTS. 



POEMS. 

ROSAMUND GRAY, &e. 
ELIA. FIRST SERIES. 
SLIA. SECOND SERIES. 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 



DEDICATION *. 



TO S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. 



My dear Coleridge, 
You will smile to see the slender labours of your friend designated by the title of Works ; but 
such was the wish of the gentlemen who have kindly undertaken the trouble of collecting them, and 
from their judgment could be no appeal. 

It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any one but yourself a volume containing the early 
pieces, which were first published among your poems, and were fairly derivatives from you and them. 
My friend Lloyd and myself came into our first battle (authorship is a sort of warfare) under cover 
of the greater Ajax. How this association, which shall always be a dear and proud recollection to 
me, came to be broken, — who snapped the three-fold cord, — whether yourself (but I know that was 
not the case) grew ashamed of your former companions, — or whether (which is by much the more 
probable) some ungracious bookseller was author of the separation, — I cannot tell ; — but wanting 
the support of your friendly elm, (I speak for myself,) my vine has, since that time, put forth few or 
no fruits ; the sap (if ever it had any) has become, in a manner, dried up and extinct ; and you will 
find your old associate, in his second volume, dwindled into prose and criticism. 

Am I right in assuming this as the cause ? or is it that, as years come upon us, (except with some 
more healthy-happy spirits,) Life itself loses much of its Poetry for us ? we transcribe but what 
we read in the great volume of Nature ; and, as the characters grow dim, we turn off, and 
look another way. You yourself write no Christabels, nor Ancient Mariners, now. 

Some of the Sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the general reader, may 
happily awaken in you remembrances, which I should be sorry should be ever totally extinct — 
the memory 

Of summer days and of delightful years — 



* Prefixed to the Author's works published in 1818. 



DEDICATION. 



even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ********** i nIli — wnen life was fresh and topics 
exhaustless, — and you first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the love of poetry, and beauty, 
and kindliness. — 

What words have I heard 
Spoke at the Mermaid ! 

The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that time, but either my eyes are 
wrown dimmer, or my old friend is the same who stood before me three-and-twenty years ago — 
his hair a little confessing the hand of Time, but still shrouding the same capacious brain, — his 
heart not altered, scarcely where it " alteration finds." 

One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original form, though I have heard you 

complain of a certain over-imitation of the antique in the style. If I could see any way of 

getting rid of the objection, without re-writing it entirely, I would make some sacrifices. But 

when I wrote John Woodvil, I never proposed to myself any distinct deviation from common 

English. I had been newly initiated in the writings of our elder dramatists : Beaumont and 

Fletcher, and Massinger, were then a first love ; and from what I was so freshly conversant 

in, what, wonder if my language imperceptibly took a tinge ? The very time which I had 

chosen for my story, that which immediately followed the Restoration, seemed to require, in an 

English play, that the English should be of rather an older cast tban that of the precise year in 

which it happened to be written. I wish it had not some faults, which I can less vindicate than 

the language. 

I remain, 

My dear Coleridge, 

Yours, 

With unabated esteem, 

C. LAMB. 



CONTENTS. 



POEMS. 

[Those marked with an asterisk are by the Author's 

Sister.'] page 

Hester 1 

To Charles Lloyd, an unexpected Visitor . . . ib. 

The Three Friends 2 

To a River in which a Child was drowned . . • 4 

The Old Familiar Faces ih. 

*Helen . . . . . . • . . ib. 

A Vision of Repentance . . . . . ib 

* Dialogue between a Mother and Child . . . 5 
Queen Oriana's Dream ... . . ib. 
A Ballad noting the difference of Rich and Poor, 

in the ways of a rich Noble's Palace and a 

Poor Workhouse ..... 6 

Hypochondriacus ib. 

A Farewell to Tobacco 7 

ToT.L. H., aChild 8 

Ballad, from the German ..... 9 

* David in the Cave of Adullam . . . . ib. 

* Salome . . ib. 

* Lines on the celebrated Picture by Leonardo da 

Vinci, called the Virgin of the Rocks . 10 

* On the same . . . . . . ib. 

* Lines suggested by a Picture of two Females, by 

Leonardo da Vinci . . . . . ib. 

* Lines on the same Picture being removed to make 

place for a Portrait of a Lady by Titian . ib. 



SONNETS. 

I. To Miss Kelly 11 

II. On the sight of Swans in Kensington Garden, ib. 
Ill 



IV. 



ib. 



ib. 



PAGE 
V 11 

VI. The Family Name . . . .12 

VII. . . . . . . . . . ib. 

VIII ib. 

IX. To John Lamb, Esq., of the South -Sea-House, ib. 

X. . . ib. 

XI . ib. 

BLANK VERSE. 

Childhood . 13 

The Grandame ib. 

The Sabbath Bells ib. 

Fancy employed on Divine Subjects . . . . ib. 

Composed at Midnight 14 

John Woodvil, a Tragedy . . . . . . 15 

The Witch, a Dramatic Sketch of the Seventeenth 

Century 31 



ALBUM VERSES, 

WITH A FEW OTHERS. 

In the Autograph Book of Mrs. Sergeant W— . . 32 
To Dora W— , on being asked by her Father to write 

in her Album . . . , . . ib. 

In the Album of a Clergyman's Lady . . . . 33 

In the Album of Edith S— ib. 

In the Album of Rotha Q— ib. 

In the Album of Catherine Orkney . . . ib. 

In the Album of Lucy Barton ib. 

In the Album of Mrs. Jane Towers . . .34 

In the Album of Miss ... . ib. 

In my own Album . . . ib. 



CONTENTS. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Angel Help ....... 

On an Infant dying as soon as born 
The Christening .... 

The Young Catechist .... 

She is going . . . . 

To a young Friend on her Twenty-first Birthday 



To T. Stothard, Esq., on his Illustrations of the 

Poems of Mr. Rogers .... 
To a Friend on his Marriage 

The Self-Enchanted 

" O Lift with Reverent Hand " . 

To Louisa M— , whom I used to call '« Monkey ' 



PAGE 

. 35 
ib. 

. 36 
ib. 
ib. 

. 37 



SONNETS. 
Harmony in Unlikeness . . • . .37 

Written at Cambridge ib. 

To a celebrated Female Performer in the " Blind 

Boy" ib. 

Work 38 

Leisure ib. 

To Samuel Rogers, Esq. . c . . . . ib. 

The Gipsy's Malison ib. 



COMMENDATORY VERSES, &c. 

To the Author of Poems, published under the name 

of Barry Cornwall 39 

To J. S. Knowles, Esq., on his Tragedy of Virginius ib. 

To the Editor of the " E very-Day Book " . . , ib. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT 
BOURNE. 

The Ballad-Singers 41 

On a Sepulchral Statue of an Infant Sleeping . . 42 
To David Cook, of the Parish of Saint Margaret's, 

Westminster, Watchman . . . . ib. 

Epitaph on a Dog ib. 

The Rival Bells 42 

Newton's Principia ...... 43 

The Housekeeper . . • . . . . ib. 

The Female Orators ib. 

On a Deaf and Dumb Artist ib. 

Pindaric Ode to the Tread- Mill . . . .43 

Going or Gone . . . . . . . . 44 

Free Thoughts on several Eminent Composers . 45 

The Wife's Trial ; or, the Intruding Widow. A 

Dramatic Poem . . . . . . 46 



POEMS. 


HESTER. 


TO CHARLES LLOYD, 





AN UNEXPECTED VISITER. 


When maidens such as Hester die, 
Their place ye may not well supply, 




Alone, obscure, without a friend, 


Though ye among a thousand try, 


A cheerless, solitary thing, 


With vain endeavour. 


Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger out ? 


A month or more hath she been dead, 


What offering can the stranger bring 


Yet cannot I by force be led 


Of social scenes, home-bred delights, 


To think upon the wormy bed, 


That him in aught compensate may 


And her together. 


For Stowey's pleasant winter nights, 




For loves and friendships far away ? 


A springy motion in her gait, 




A rising step, did indicate 


In brief oblivion to forego 


Of pride and joy no common rate, 


Friends, such as thine, so justly dear, 


That flush'd her spirit. 


And be awhile with me content 




To stay, a kindly loiterer, here ; 


I know not by what name beside 




I shall it call : — if 'twas not pride, 


For this a gleam of random joy 


It was a joy to that allied, 


Hath flush' d my unaccustom'd cheek ; 


She did inherit. 


And, with an o'ercharged bursting heart, 




I feel the thanks I cannot speak. 


Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
Which doth the human feeling cool, 
But she was train'd in Nature's school, 


Oh ! sweet are all the Muses' lays, 
And sweet the charm of matin bird ; 


Nature had blest her. 


'Twas long since these estranged ears 




The sweeter voice of friend had heard. 


A waking eye, a prying mind, 


The voice hath spoke : the pleasant sounds 


A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, 


In memory's ear in after time 


A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 


Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear, 


Ye could not Hester. 


And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme. 


My sprightly neighbour ! gone before 


For, when the transient charm is fled, 


To that unknown and silent shore, 


And when the little week is o'er, 


Shall we not meet, as heretofore, 


To cheerless, friendless, solitude 


Some summer morning, 


When I return, as heretofore, 


When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 


Long, long, within my aching heart 


Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 


The grateful sense shall cherish' d be ; 


A bliss that would not go away, 


I'll think less meanly of myself, 


A sweet fore-warning ? 

. . , 


That Lloyd will sometimes think on me. 

B 

— , — 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE THREE FRIENDS. 



Three young maids in friendship met ; 

Mary, Martha, Margaret. 

Margaret was tall and fair, 

Martha shorter by a hair ; 

If the first excell'd in feature, 

Th' other's grace and ease were greater; 

Mary, though to rival loth, 

In their best gifts equalled both. 

They a due proportion kept ; 

Martha mourn' d if Margaret wept ; 

Margaret joy'd when any good 

She of Martha understood ; 

And in sympathy for either 

Mary was outdone by neither. 

Thus far, for a happy space, 

All three ran an equal race, 

A most constant friendship proving, 

Equally beloved and loving ; 

All their wishes, joys, the same ; 

Sisters only not in name. 

Fortune upon each one smiled, 
As upon a fav'rite child ; 
Well to do and well to see 
Were the parents of all three ; 
Till on Martha's father crosses 
Brought a flood of worldly losses, 
And his fortunes rich and great 
Changed at once to low estate ; 
Under which o'erwhelming blow 
Martha's mother was laid low ; 
She a hapless orphan left, 
Of maternal care bereft, 
Trouble following trouble fast, 
Lay in a sick bed at last. 

In the depth of her affliction 
Martha now receiv'd conviction, 
That a true and faithful friend 
Can the surest comfort lend. 
Night and day, with friendship tried, 
Ever constant by her side 
Was her gentle Mary found, 
With a love that knew no bound ; 
And the solace she imparted 
Saved her dying broken-hearted. 

In this scene of earthly things 
Not one good unmixed springs. 
That which had to Martha proved 
A sweet consolation, moved 
Different feelings of regret 
In the mind of Margaret. 



She, whose love was not less dear, 

Nor affection less sincere 

To her friend, was, by occasion 

Of more distant habitation, 

Fewer visits forced to pay her ; 

When no other cause did stay her ; 

And her Mary living nearer, 

Margaret began to fear her, 

Lest her visits day by day 

Martha's heart should steal away. 

That whole heart she ill could spare her, 

Where till now she'd been a sharer. 

From this cause with grief she pined, 

Till at length her health declined. 

All her cheerful spirits flew, 

Fast as Martha gather'd new ; 

And her sickness waxed sore, 

Just when Martha felt no more. 

Mary, who had quick suspicion 
Of her alter'd friend's condition, 
Seeing Martha's convalescence 
Less demanded now her presence, 
With a goodness, built on reason, 
Changed her measures with the season ; 
Turn'd her steps from Martha's door, 
Went where she was wanted more ; 
All her care and thoughts were set 
Now to tend on Margaret. 
Mary living 'twixt the two, 
From her home could oft'ner go, 
Either of her friends to see, 
Than they could together be. 

Truth explain'd is to suspicion 
Evermore the best physician. 
Soon her visits had the effect ; 
All that Margaret did suspect, 
From her fancy vanished clean ; 
She was soon what she had been, 
And the colour she did lack 
To her faded cheek came back. 
Wounds which love had made her feel, 
Love alone had power to heal. 

Martha, who the frequent visit 
Now had lost, and sore did miss it, 
With impatience waxed cross, 
Counted Margaret's gain her loss : 
All that Mary did confer 
On her friend, thought due to her. 
In her girlish bosom rise 
Little foolish jealousies, 
Which into such rancour wrought, 
She one day for Margaret sought : 
Finding her by chance alone, 
She began, with reasons shown, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



To insinuate a fear 

Whether Mary was sincere ; 

Wish'd that Margaret would take heed 

Whence her actions did proceed. 

For herself, she'd long been minded 

Not with outsides to be blinded ; 

All that pity and compassion, 

She believed was affectation ; 

In her heart she doubted whether 

Mary cared a pin for either. 

She could keep whole weeks at distance, 

And not know of their existence, 

While all things remain'd the same ; 

But, when some misfortune came, 

Then she made a great parade 

Of her sympathy and aid, — 

Not that she did really grieve, 

It was only make-believe, 

And she cared for nothing, so 

She might her fine feelings show, 

And get credit, on her part, 

For a soft and tender heart. 

With such speeches, smoothly made, 
She found methods to persuade 
Margaret (who being sore 
From the doubts she'd felt before, 
Was prepared for mistrust) 
To believe her reasons just ; 
Quite destroy'd that comfort glad, 
Which in Mary late she had ; 
Made her, in experience' spite, 
Think her friend a hypocrite, 
And resolve, with cruel scoff, 
To renounce and cast her off. 

See how good turns are rewarded ! 
She of both is now discarded, 
Who to both had been so late 
Their support in low estate, 
All their comfort, and their stay — ■ 
Now of both is cast away. 
But the league her presence cherish'd, 
Losing its best prop, soon perish'd ; 
She, that was a link to either, 
To keep them and it together, 
Being gone, the two (no wonder) 
That were left, soon fell asunder ; — 
Some civilities were kept, 
But the heart of friendship slept ; 
Love with hollow forms was fed, 
But the life of love lay dead : — 
A cold intercourse they held, 
After Mary was expell'd. 

Two long years did intervene 
Since they'd either of them seen, 



Or, by letter, any word 

Of their old companion heard, — 

When, upon a day, once walking, 

Of indifferent matters talking, 

They a female figure met ; 

Martha said to Margaret, 

" That young maid in face does carry ' 

A resemblance strong of Mary." 

Margaret, at nearer sight, 

Own'd her observation right ; 

But they did not far proceed 

Ere they knew 'twas she indeed. 

She — but, ah ! how changed they view her 

From that person which they knew her ! 

Her fine face disease had scarr'd, 

And its matchless beauty marr'd : — 

But enough was left to trace 

Mary's sweetness — Mary's grace. 

When her eye did first behold them, 

How they blush'd ! — but, when she told them, 

How on a sick bed she lay 

Months, while they had kept away, 

And had no inquiries made 

If she were alive or dead ; — 

How, for want of a true friend, 

She was brought near to her end, 

And was like so to have died, 

With no friend at her bed-side ; — 

How the constant irritation, 

Caused by fruitless expectation 

Of their coming, had extended 

The illness, when she might have mended, — 

Then, then, how did reflection 

Come on them with recollection ! 

All that she had done for them, 

How it did their fault condemn ! 

But sweet Mary, still the same, 
Kindly eased them of their shame ; 
Spoke to them with accents bland, 
Took them friendly by the hand ; 
Bound them both with promise fast, 
Not to speak of troubles past ; 
Made them on the spot declare 
A new league of friendship there ; 
Which, without a word of strife, 
Lasted thenceforth long as life. 
Martha now and Margaret 
Strove who most should pay the debt 
Which they owed her, nor did vary 
Ever after from their Mary. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS 
DROWNED. 

Smiling river, smiling river, 

On thy bosom sun-beams play ; 
Though they're fleeting, and retreating, 

Thou hast more deceit than they. 

In thy channel, in thy channel, 
Choked with ooze and grav'lly stones, 

Deep immersed, and unhearsed, 

Lies young Edward's corse : his bones 

Ever whitening, ever whitening, 
As thy waves against them dash ; 

What thy torrent, in the current, 
Swallow'd, now it helps to wash. 

As if senseless, as if senseless 

Things had feeling in this case ; 
What so blindly, and unkindly, 

It destroy'd, it now does grace. 



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 



I have had playmates, I have had companions, 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days, 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting 'late, with my bosom cronies, 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my child- 
hood. 
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling % 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces — 

How some they have died, and some they have 

left me, 
And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 



HELEN. 

High-born Helen, round your dwelling 
These twenty years I've paced in vain : 

Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty 
Hath been to glory in his pain. 

High-born Helen, proudly telling 

Stories of thy cold disdain : 
I starve, I die, now you comply, 

And I no longer can complain. 

These twenty years I've lived on tears, 
Dwelling for ever on a frown ; 

On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread ; 
I perish now you kind are grown. 

Can I, who loved my beloved 

But for the scorn " was in her eye," 

Can I be moved for my beloved, 

When she " returns me sigh for sigh ? " 

In stately pride, by my bed-side, 
High-born Helen's portrait 's hung ; 

Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays 
Are nightly to the portrait sung. 

To that I weep, nor ever sleep, 

Complaining all night long to her — 

Helen, grown old, no longer cold, 
Said, " You to all men I prefer." 



A VISION OF REPENTANCE. 



I saw a famous fountain, in my dream, 
Where shady path- ways to a valley led ; 

A weeping willow lay upon that stream, 

And all around the fountain brink were spread 

Wide-branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad, 

Forming a doubtful twilight — desolate and sad. 

The place was such, that whoso enter'd in, 
Disrobed was of every earthly thought, 

And straight became as one that knew not sin, 
Or to the world's first innocence was brought ; 

Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground, 

In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around. 

A most strange calm stole o'er my soothed sprite; 

Long time I stood, and longer had I staid, 
When, lo ! I saw, saw by the sweet moon-light, 

Which came in silence o'er that silent shade, 
Where, near the fountain, something like despair 
Made, of that weeping willow, garlands for her 
hair. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



And eke with painful fingers she inwove 
Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn — 

" The willow garland, that was for her love, 
And these her bleeding temples would adorn." 

With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell, 

As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well. 

To whom when I addrest myself to speak, 
She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said : 

The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek, 
And, gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled 

To the dark covert of that woody shade, 

And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid. 

Revolving in my mind what this should mean, 
And why that lovely lady plained so ; 

Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene, 
And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go, 

I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around, 

When from the shades came slow a small and plain- 
tive sound. 

" Psyche am I, who love to dwell 
In these brown shades, this woody dell, 
Where never busy mortal came, 
Till now, to pry upon my shame. 

At thy feet what thou dost see 
The waters of repentance be, 
Which, night and day, I must augment 
With tears, like a true penitent, 

If haply so my day of grace 
Be not yet past ; and this lone place, 
O'er-shadowy, dark, excludeth hence 
All thoughts but grief and penitence." 

" Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid ! 
And wherefore in this barren shade 
Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed ? 
Can thing so fair repentance need ? " 

"0 ! I have done a deed of shame, 
And tainted is my virgin fame, 
And stain'd the beauteous maiden white 
In which my bridal robes were dight." 

'•'•And who the promised spoused declare: 
And what those bridal garments were." 

et Severe and saintly righteousness 
Composed the clear white bridal dress ; 
Jesus, the Son of Heaven's high King, 
Bought with his blood the marriage ring. 

A wretched sinful creature, I 
Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie, 
Gave to a treacherous world my heart, 
And play'd the foolish wanton's part. 



Soon to these murky shades I came, 

To hide from the sun's light my shame. 

And still I haunt this woody dell, 

And bathe me in that healing well, 

Whose waters clear have influence 

From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse ; 

And, night and day, I them augment, 

With tears, like a true penitent, 

Until, due expiation made, 

And fit atonement fully paid, 

The Lord and Bridegroom me present, 

Where in sweet strains of high consent, 

God's throne before the Seraphim 

Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn." 

" Now Christ restore thee soon" — I said, 
And thenceforth all my dream was fled. 



DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER 
AND CHILD. 



CHILD. 

li lady, lay your costly robes aside, 
No longer may you glory in your pride." 

MOTHER. 

Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear 
Sad songs, were made so long ago, my dear ? 
This day I am to be a bride, you know, 
Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago ? 

CHILD. 

mother, lay your costly robes aside, 
For you may never be another's bride. 
That line I leam'd not in the old^sad song. 

MOTHER. 

1 pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue, 
Play with the bride-maids ; and be glad, my boy, 
For thou shalt be a second father's joy. 

CHILD. 

One father fondled me upon his knee. 
One father is enough, alone, for me. 



QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM. 

On a bank with roses shaded, 
Whose sweet scent the violets aided, 
Violets whose breath alone 
Yields but feeble smell or none, 
(Sweeter bed Jove ne'er reposed on 
When his eyes Olympus closed on,) 
While o'er head six slaves did hold 
Canopy of cloth o' gold, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



And two more did music keep, 
Which might Juno lull to sleep, 
Oriana, who was queen 
To the mighty Tamerlane, 
That was lord of all the land 
Between Thrace and Samarchand, 
While the noon-tide fervor beam'd. 
Mused herself to sleep, and dream' d. 

Thus far, in magnific strain, 
A young poet soothed his vein, 
But he had nor prose nor numbers 
To express a princess' slumbers. — 
Youthful Richard had strange fancies, 
Was deep versed in old romances, 
And could talk whole hours upon 
The Great Cham and Prester John, — 
Tell the field in which the Sophi 
From the Tartar won a trophy — 
What he read with such delight of, 
Thought he could as eas'ly write of — 
But his over-young invention 
Kept not pace with brave intention. 
Twenty suns did rise and set, 
And he could no further get ; 
But, unable to proceed, 
Made a virtue out of need, 
And, his labours wiselier deem'd of, 
Did omit what the queen dream? d of. 



A BALLAD, 

NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE 

WAYS OF A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A 

POOR WORKHOUSE. 

To the Tune of the " Old and Young Courtier." 



In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold ; 
In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold : 
There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire, 
Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their 
desire. 

In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine, 
They have store of good venison, with old canary 

wine, 
With singing and music to heighten the cheer ; 
Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best 

fare. 

In a costly palace Youth is still carest 

By a train of attendants which laugh at my young 

Lord's jest ; 
In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails : 
Does Age begin to prattle ?— no man heark'neth 

to his tales. 



In a costly palace, if the child with a pin 
Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doc- 
tor is called in ; 
In a wretched workhouse, men are left to perish 
For want of proper cordials, which their old age 
might cherish. 

In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust ; 

In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust, 

Thinks upon the former days, when he was well 

to do, 
Had children to stand by him, both friends and 

kinsmen too. 

In a costly palace, Youth his temples hides 
With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides; 
In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare, 
With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air. 

In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride, 
To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by 

his side, 
That none to do them injury may have pretence j 
Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence. 



HYPOCHONDRIACUS. 



By myself walking, 

To myself talking, 

When as I ruminate 

On my untoward fate, 

Scarcely seem I 

Alone sufficiently, 

Black thoughts continually 

Crowding my privacy ; 

They come unbidden, 

Like foes at a wedding, 

Thrusting their faces 

In better guests' places, 

Peevish and malecontent, 

Clownish, impertinent, 

Dashing the merriment : 

So in like fashions 

Dim cogitations 

Follow and haunt me, 

Striving to daunt me, 

In my heart festering, 

In my ears whispering, 

" Thy friends are treacherous, 

Thy foes are dangerous, 

Thy dreams ominous." 

Fierce Anthropophagi, 
Spectra, Diaboli, 
What scared St. Anthony, 
Hobgoblins, Lemures, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Dreams of Antipodes, 
Night-riding Incubi 
Troubling the fantasy, 
All dire illusions 
Causing confusions ; 
Figments heretical, 
Scruples fantastical, 
Doubts diabolical ; 
Abaddon vexeth me, 
Mahu perplexeth me, 
Lucifer teareth me 

Jesu ! Maria ! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus 
Inirnici. 



A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. 

May the Babylonish curse 

Straight confound my stammering verse, 

If I can a passage see 

In this word-perplexity, 

Or a fit expression find, 

Or a language to my mind, 

(Still the phrase is wide or scant) 

To take leave of thee, great plant ! 

Or in any terms relate 

Half my love, or half my hate : 

For I hate, yet love thee, so, 

That, whichever thing I show, 

The plain truth will seem to be 

A constrain'd hyperbole, 

And the passion to proceed 1 

More from a mistress than a weed. 

Sooty retainer to the vine, 
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine ; 
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon 
Thy begrimed complexion, 
And, for thy pernicious sake, 
More and greater oaths to break 
Than reclaimed lovers take 
'Gainst women : thou thy siege dost lay 
Much too in the female way, 
While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath 
Faster than kisses or than death. 

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, 
That our worst foes cannot find us, 
And ill fortune, that would thwart us, 
Shoots at rovers, shooting at us ; 
While each man, through thy height'ning steam, 
Does like a smoking Etna seem, 
And all about us does express 
(Fancy and wit in richest dress) 
A Sicilian fruitfulness. 

Thou through such a mist dost show us, 
That our best friends do not know us, 



And, for those allowed features, 
Due to reasonable creatures, 
Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, 
Monsters that, who see us, fear us : 
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, 
Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. 



His tipsy rites. But what art thou, 
That but by reflex canst show 
What his deity can do, 
As the false Egyptian spell 
Aped the true Hebrew miracle ? 
Some few vapours thou may'st raise, 
The weak brain may serve to amaze, 
But to the reins and nobler heart 
Canst nor life nor heat impart. 

Brother of Bacchus, later born, 
The old world was sure forlorn 
Wanting thee, that aidest more 
The god's victories than before 
All his panthers, and the brawls 
Of his piping Bacchanals. 
These, as stale, we disallow, 
Or judge of thee meant : only thou 
His true Indian conquest art ; 
And, for ivy round his dart, 
The reformed god now weaves 
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. 

Scent to match thy rich perfume 
Chemic art did ne'er presume 
Through her quaint alembic strain, 
None so sov'reign to the brain 
Nature, that did in thee excel, 
Framed again no second smell. 
Roses, violets, but toys 
For the smaller sort of boys, 
Or for greener damsels meant ; 
Thou art the only manly scent. 

Stinking'st of the stinking kind, 
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, 
Africa, that brags her foison, 
Breeds no such prodigious poison 
Henbane, nightshade, both together, 

Hemlock, aconite 

Nay, rather, 
Plant divine, of rarest virtue ; 
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 
'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee ; 
None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee ; 
Irony all, and feign'd abuse, 
Such as perplex'd lovers use, 
At a need, when, in despair 
To paint forth their fairest fair, 



8 MISCELLANEOUS. 


Or in part but to express 




That exceeding comeliness 




Which their fancies doth so strike. 


TO T. L. H. 


They borrow language of dislike ; 


A CHILD. 


And, instead of Dearest Miss, 





Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, 


Model of thy parent dear, 


And those forms of old admiring, 


Serious infant worth a fear : 


Call her Cockatrice and Siren, 


In thy unfaltering visage well 


Basilisk, and all that's evil, 


Picturing forth the son of Tell, 


Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, "* 


When on his forehead, firm and good, 


Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, 


Motionless mark, the apple stood ; 


Monkey, Ape, and twenty more ; 


Guileless traitor, rebel mild, 


Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe, — 


Convict unconscious, culprit child ! 


Not that she is truly so, 


Gates that close with iron roar 


But no other way they know 


Have been to thee thy nursery door ; 


A contentment to express, 


Chains that chink in cheerless cells 


Borders so upon excess, 


Have been thy rattles and thy bells ; 


That they do not rightly wot 


Walls contrived for giant sin 


Whether it be pain or not. 


Have hemmed thy faultless weakness in ; 




Near thy sinless bed black Guilt 


Or, as men, constrain'd to part 


Her discordant house hath built, 


With what's nearest to their heart, 


And filled it with her monstrous brood- 


While their sorrow 's at the height, 


Sights, by thee not understood — 


Lose discrimination quite, 
And their hasty wrath let fall, 


Sights of fear, and of distress, 
That pass a harmless infant's guess ! 


To appease their frantic gall, 




On the darling thing whatever, 


But the clouds, that overcast 


Whence they feel it death to sever, 


Thy young morning, may not last ; 


Though it be, as they, perforce, 


Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour 


Guiltless of the sad divorce. 


That yields thee up to Nature's power : 


For I must (nor let it grieve thee, 


Nature, that so late doth greet thee ; 


Friendliest of plants, that 1 must) leave thee 


Shall in o'erflowing measure meet thee. 


For thy sake, tobacco, I 


She shall recompense with cost 


Would do anything but die, 


For every lesson thou hast lost. 


And but seek to extend my days 


Then wandering up thy sire's loved hill,* 


Long enough to sing thy praise. 


Thou shalt take thy airy fill 


But, as she, who once hath been 


Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing 


A king's consort, is a queen 


For thy delight each May morning. 


Ever after, nor will bate 


'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play, 


Any tittle of her state, 


Hardly less a lamb than they. 


Though a widow, or divorced, 


Then thy prison's lengthened bound 


So I, from thy converse forced, 


Shall be the horizon skirting round : 


The old name and style retain, 


And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers, 


A right Katherine of Spain ; 


To make amends for wintry hours, 


And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys 


The breeze, the sunshine, and the place, 


Of the blest Tobacco Boys ; 


Shall from thy tender brow efface 


Where, though I, by sour physician, 


Each vestige of untimely care, 


Am debarr'd the full fruition 


That sour restraint had graven there ; 


Of thy favours, I may catch 


And on thy every look impress 


Some collateral sweets, and snatch 


A more excelling childishness. 


Sidelong odours, that give life 




Like glances from a neighbour's wife ; 


So shall be thy days beguiled, 


And still live in the by- places 
And the suburbs of thy graces ; 


Thornton Hunt, my favourite child. 


* Hampstead. 


And in thy borders take delight, 




An unconquer'd Canaanite. 

.— 





MISCELLANEOUS. 9 


BALLAD. 


SALOME. 


FROM THE GERMAN. 


Once on a charger there was laid, 





And brought before a royal maid, 


The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening, 


As price of attitude and grace, 


And ever the forest raaketh a moan : 


A guiltless head, a holy face. 


Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching, 




Thus by herself she singeth alone, 


It was on Herod's natal day, 


Weeping right plenteously. 


Who o'er Judea's land held sway. 




He married his own brother's wife, 


" The world is empty, the heart is dead surely, 


Wicked Herodias. She the life 


In this world plainly all seemeth amiss : 


Of John the Baptist long had sought, 


To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one, 


Because he openly had taught 


I have had earnest of all earth's bliss, 


That she a life unlawful led, 


Living right lovingly." 


Having her husband's brother wed. 




This was he, that saintly John, 




Who in the wilderness alone 




Abiding, did for clothing wear 




A garment made of camel's hair ; 


DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM. 


Honey and locusts were his food, 


~— — ■ ~™ 


And he was most severely good, 


David and his three captains bold 


He preached penitence and tears, 


Kept ambush once within a hold. 


And waking first the sinner's fears, 


It was in Adullanrs cave, 


Prepared a path, made smooth a way, 


Nigh which no water they could have, 


For his diviner Master's day. 


Nor spring, nor running brook was near 




To quench the thirst that parch' d them there. 


Herod kept in princely state 


Then David, king of Israel, 


His birth-day. On his throne he sate, 


Straight bethought him of a well, 


After the feast, beholding her 


Which stood beside the city gate, 


Who danced with grace peculiar ; 


At Bethlem ; where, before his state 


Fair Salome, who did excel 


Of kingly dignity, he had 


All in that land for dancing well. 


Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad ; 


The feastful monarch's heart was fired, 


But now his fierce Philistine foe 


And whatsoe'er thing she desired, 


Encamped before it he does know. 


Though half his kingdom it should be, 


Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest, 


He in his pleasure swore that he 


Those three bold captains he addrest : 


Would give the graceful Salome. 


And wish'd that one to him would bring 


The damsel was Herodias' daughter : 


Some water from his native spring. 


She to the queen hastes, and besought her 


His valiant captains instantly 


To teach her what great gift to name. 


To execute his will did fly. 


Instructed by Herodias, came 


The mighty Three the ranks broke through 


he damsel back : to Herod said, 


Of arme'd foes, and water drew 


" Give me John the Baptist's head ; 


For David, their beloved king, 


And in a charger let it be 


At his own sweet native spring ; 


Hither straightway brought to me." 


Back through their armed foes they haste, 


Herod her suit would fain deny, 


With the hard-earn' d treasure graced. 


But for his oath's sake must comply. 


But when the good king David found 
What they had done, he on the ground 
The water pour'd. " Because," said he, 
" That it was at the jeopardy 
Of your three lives this thing ye did, 
That I should drink it, God forbid." 


When painters would by art express 
Beauty in unloveliness, 
Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee, 
They fittest subject take to be. 
They give thy form and features grace ; 




But ever in thy beauteous face 


[ 


They show a steadfast cruel gaze, 



10 MISCELLANEOUS. 


An eye unpitying ; and amaze 




In all beholders deep they mark, 




That thou betrayest not one spark 


LINES 


Of feeling for the ruthless deed 


SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES BY 


That did thy praiseful dance succeed. 


LIONARDO DA VINCI. 


For on the head they make you look, 





As if a sullen joy you took, 


The lady Blanch, regardless of all her lovers' 


A cruel triumph, wicked pride, 


fears, 


That for your sport a saint had died. 


To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the 




Abbess hears, 




" Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life 
ye lead." 






Blanch look'd on a rose-bud and little seem'd 


LINES 


to heed. 




She look'd on the rose-bud, she look'd round, 


ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA VINCI, 


and thought 
On all her heart had whisper' d, and all the 


CALLED THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS. 


While young John runs to greet 


Nun had taught. 


The greater Infant's feet, 


" I am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines 


The Mother standing by, with trembling passion 


my fame, 


Of devout admiration, 


" All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's 


Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty 


name. 


Nor knows as yet the full event [adoration ; 


" Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from 


Of those so low beginnings, 


the tree, 


From whence we date our winnings, 


" My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's 


But wonders at the intent 


gone from me. 


Of those new rites, and what that strange child- 


" But when the sculptured marble is raised o'er my 


But at her side [worship meant. 


head, 


An angel doth abide, 


ec And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among 


With such a perfect joy 


the noble dead, 


As no dim doubts alloy, 


''This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly 


An intuition, 


fear 


A glory, an amenity, 


" It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd 


Passing the dark condition 


here." 


Of blind humanity, 




As if he surely knew 




All the blest wonders should ensue, 




Or he had lately left the upper sphere, 


LINES 


And had read all the sovran schemes and divine 


ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE PLACE 


riddles there. 


FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY BY TITIAN. 




Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place 






Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace ? 


ON THE SAME. " 


Come, fair and pretty, tell to me, 


— 


Who, in thy lifetime, thou might'st be. 


Maternal lady with the virgin grace, 


Thou pretty art and fair, 


Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure, 


But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare. 


And thou a virgin pure. 


No need for Blanch her history to tell ; 


Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face 


Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well. 


Men look upon, they wish to be 


But when I look on thee, I only know 


A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee. 


There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago. 



SONNETS. 



11 



SONNETS 



TO MISS KELLY. 

You are not, Kelly, of the common strain, 
That stoop their pride and female honour down 
To please that many-headed beast the town, 
And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain ; 
By fortune thrown amid the actors' train, 
You keep your native dignity of thought ; 
The plaudits that attend you come unsought, 
As tributes due unto your natural vein. 
Your tears have passion in them, and a grace 
Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow ; 
Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace, 
That vanish and return we know not how— 
And please the better from a pensive face, 
A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow. 



II. 

ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN. 

Queen- bird that sittest on thy shining nest, 
And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest, 
And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest 
Lest the white mother wandering feet molest : 
Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle, 
Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst 
Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first 
Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like, able 
To tread the land or waters with security. 
Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin, 
In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in 
Confessing weakness, error, and impurity. 
Did heavenly creatures own succession's line, 
The births of heaven like to yours would shine. 



III. 

Was it some sweet device of Faery 
That mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade, 
And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid ? 
Have these things been ? or what rare witchery, 
Impregning with delights the charmed air, 



Enlighted up the semblance of a smile 
In those fine eyes % methought they spake the while 
Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair 
To drop the murdering knife, and let go by 
His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade 
Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid ? 
Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh ? 
While I forlorn do wander reckless where, 
And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there. 



IV. 

Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined 

Beneath the vast out- stretching branches high 

Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie, 

Nor of the busier scenes we left behind 

Aught envying. And, O Anna ! mild-eyed maid ! 

Beloved ! I were well content to play 

With thy free tresses all a summer's day, 

Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade. 

Or we might sit and tell some tender tale 

Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn, 

A tale of true love, or of friend forgot ; 

And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail 

In gentle sort, on those who practise not 

Or love or pity, though of woman born. 



V. 

When last I roved these winding wood- walks green, 
Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet, 
Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene, 
Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat. 
No more I hear her footsteps in the shade : 
Her image only in these pleasant ways 
Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days 
I held free converse with the fair-haired maid. 
I passed the little cottage which she loved, 
The cottage which did once my all contain ; 
It spake of days which ne'er must come again, 
Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. 
" Now fair befall thee, gentle maid ! " said I, 
And from the cottage turned me with a sigh. 



12 



SONNETS. 



VI. 

THE FAMILY NAME. 



What reason first imposed thee, gentle name, 
Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, 
Without reproach ? we trace our stream no higher : 
And I, a childless man, may end the same. 
Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, 
In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, 
Received thee first amid the merry mocks 
And arch allusions of his fellow swains. 
Perchance from Salem's holier fields return'd, 
With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd 
Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord 
Took his meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd. 
Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came, 
No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name. 



VII. 

If from my lips some angry accents fell, 

Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, 

'Twas but the error of a sickly rnind 

And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well, 

And waters clear, of Reason ; and for me 

Let this my verse the poor atonement be — ■ 

My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined 

Too highly, and with a partial eye to see 

No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show 

Kindest affection ; and would oft-times lend 

An ear to the desponding love-sick lay, 

Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay 

But ill the mighty debt of love I owe, 

Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend. 



VIII. 

A timid grace sits trembling in her eye, 

As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight, 

Yet shedding a delicious lunar light, 

That steeps in kind oblivious ecstacy 

The care-crazed mind, like some still melody : 

Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess 

Her gentle sprite : peace, and meek quietness, 

And innocent loves, and maiden purity : 

A look whereof might heal the cruel smart 

Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind; 

Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart 

Of him who hates his brethren of mankind. 

Turn'd are those lights from me, who fondly yet 

Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret. 



IX. 



TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE. 



John, you were figuring in the gay career 

Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy, 

When I was yet a little peevish boy — 

Though time has made the difference disappear 

Betwixt our ages, which then seem'd so great — 

And still by rightful custom you retain 

Much of the old authoritative strain, 

And keep the elder brother up in state. 

! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed 

To let the " things that have been " run to waste, 

And in the unmeaning present sink the past : 

In whose dim glass even now I faintly read 

Old buried forms, and faces long ago, 

Which you, and I, and one more, only know. 



X. 

! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind, 
That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, 
Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep 
Like to a child. For now to my raised mind 
On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Phantasy, 
And her rude visions give severe delight. 
winged bark ! how swift along the night 
Pass'd thy proud keel ! nor shall I let go by 
Lightly of that drear hour the memory, 
When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood, 
Unbonnetted, and gazed upon the flood, 
Even till it seem'd a pleasant thing to die, — 
To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave, 
Or take my portion with the winds that rave. 



XI. 

We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, 
The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween, 
And Innocence her name. The time has been, 
We two did love each other's company ; 
Time was, we two had wept to have been apart. 
But when by show of seeming good beguiled, 
I left the garb and manners of a child, 
And my first love for man's society, 
Defiling with the world my virgin heart — 
My loved companion dropp'd a tear, and fled, 
And hid in deepest shades her awful head. 
Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art — 
In what delicious Eden to be found — 
That I may seek thee the wide world around ? 



BLANK VERSE. 



13 



BLANK VERSE 



CHILDHOOD. 

In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse 
Upon the days gone by ; to act in thought 
Past seasons o'er, and be again a child ; 
To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope, [flowers, 
Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay 
Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand 
(Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled,) 
Would throw away, and straight take up again, 
Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn 
Bound with so playful and so light a foot, 
That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head. 



THE GRAND AME. 

On the green hill top, 
Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof, 
And not distinguished from its neighbour-barn, 
Save by a slender-tapering length of spire, 
The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells 
The name and date to the chance passenger. 
For lowly born was she, and long had eat, 
Well-earned, the bread of service ; — hers was else 
A mountain spirit, one that entertain'd 
Scorn of base action, deed dishonourable, 
Or aught unseemly. I remember well 
Her reverend image ; I remember, too, 
With what a zeal she served her master's house ; 
And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age 
Delighted to recount the oft-told tale 
Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was, 
And wondrous skilled in genealogies, 
And could in apt and voluble terms discourse 
Of births, of titles, and alliances ; 
Of marriages, and intermarriages ; 
Relationship remote, or near of kin ; 
Of friends offended, family disgraced — 
Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying 
Parental strict injunction, and regardless 
Of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote, 
Stooping to wed with one of low degree. 
But these are not thy praises ; and I wrong 



Thy honour'd memory, recording chiefly 
Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell, 
How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love, 
She served her heavenly Master. I have seen 
That reverend form bent down with age and pain, 
And rankling malady. Yet not for this 
Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew 
Her trust in him, her faith, an humble hope — 
So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross — 
For she had studied patience in the school 
Of Christ ; much comfort she had thence derived, 
And was a follower of the Nazarene. 



THE SABBATH BELLS. 

The cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard, 
j Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice 
Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims 
Tidings of good to Zion : chiefly when 
Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear 
Of the contemplant, solitary man, 
Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to 
Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft, [lure 
And oft again, hard matter, which eludes 
And baffles his pursuit— thought-sick and tired 
Of controversy, where no end appears, 
No clue to his research, the lonely man 
Half wishes for society again. 
Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute 
Sudden 1 his heart awakes, his ears drink in 
The cheering music ; his relenting soul 
Yearns after all the joys of social life, 
And softens with the love of human kind. 



FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE 
SUBJECTS. 

The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever, 

A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk 

In the bright visions of empyreal light, 

By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads, 

Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow ; 



14 



BLANK VERSE. 



By crystal streams, and by the living waters, 
Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree 
Whose leaves shall heal the nations ; underneath 
Whose holy shade a refuge shall he found 
From pain and want, and all the ills that wait 
On mortal life, from sin and death for ever. 



COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT. 

From broken visions of perturbed rest 
I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again. 
How total a privation of all sounds, 
Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast, 
Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven. 
'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry 
Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise 
Of revel reeling home from midnight cups. 
Those are the moanings of the dying man, 
Who lies in the upper chamber ; restless moans, 
And interrupted only by a cough 
Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. 
So in the bitterness of death he lies, 
And waits in anguish for the morning's light. 
What can that do for him, or what restore ? 
Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices, 
And little images of pleasures past, 
Of health, and active life — health not yet slain, 
Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold 
For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed 
He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light, 
And finds no comfort in the sun, but says 
" When night comes I shall get a little rest." 
Some few groans more, death comes, and there an 
end. 



Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond ; 
Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope, 
And Fancy, most licentious on such themes 
Where decent reverence well had kept her mute, 
Hath o'er-stock'd hell 4 with devils, and brought 

down 
By her enormous fablings and mad lies, 
Discredit on the gospel's serious truths 
And salutary fears. The man of parts, 
Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch 
Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates 
A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he, 
Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels 
With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars 
Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed 
From damned spirits, and the torturing cries 
Of men, his breth'ren, fashion'd of the earth, 
As he was, nourished with the self-same bread, 
Belike his kindred or companions once^ — 
Through everlasting ages now divorced, 
In chains and savage torments to repent 
Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard 
In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care, 
For those thus sentenced — pity might disturb 
The delicate sense and most divine repose 
Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God, 
The measure of his judgments is not fix'd 
By man's erroneous standard. He discerns 
No such inordinate difference and vast 
Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom 
Such disproportion^ fates. Compared with him, 
No man on earth is holy calPd : they best 
Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet 
Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield 
To him of his own works the praise, his due. 



JOHN WOODVIL. 



15 



JOHN WOODVIL 



Sir "Walter "Woodvil. 

John, ) , 

v Ths sons. 
Simon, ) 

\ pretended friends of John 



Gray, 



CHARACTERS. 

Sandford. Sir Walter's old steward. 
Margaret. Orphan ward of Sir Walter. 
Four Gentlemen. John's riotous companions. 
Servants. 



Scene— /or the most part at Sir Walter's mansion in Devonshire ; at other times in the forest o/Sherwood. 
Time— soon after the Restoration. 



ACT THE FIRST. 



Scene — A Servants' Apartment in Woodvil Hall. Servants 
drinking— Time, the morning. 



A Song, by Daniel. 
"When the King enjoys his own again." 

Peter. A delicate song. Where did'st learn 
it, fellow? 

Dan. Even there, where thou learnestthy oaths 
and thy politics — at our master's table. — Where 
else should a serving-man pick up his poor accom- 
plishments ? 

Mar. Well spoken, Daniel. rare Daniel ! 
his oaths and his politics ! excellent ! 

Fran. And where didst pick up thy knavery, 
Daniel ? 

Peter. That came to him by inheritance. His 
family have supplied the shire of Devon, time out 
of mind, with good thieves and bad serving-men. 
All of his race have come into the world without 
their conscience. 

Mar. Good thieves, and bad serving-men ! 
Better and better. I marvel what Daniel hath 
got to say in reply. 

Dan. I marvel more when thou wilt say any 
thing to the purpose, thou shallow serving-man, 
whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher than 
to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us 
thy compeers. When was't ever known to club 
thy own particular jest among us? 



Mar. Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting 
things of me ! 

Fran. See — if he hath not brought tears into 
the poor fellow's eyes with the saltness of his 
rebuke. 

Dan. No offence, brother Martin — I meant 
none. 'Tis true, Heaven gives gifts, and with- 
holds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon 
me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a 
jest ; and upon thee, Martin, an indifferent bad 
capacity to understand my meaning. 

Mar. Is that all ? I am content. Here's my 
hand. 

Fran. Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, 
but never could endure bawdry. 

Dan. Quot homines tot sententice. 

Mar. And what is that ! 

Dan. 'Tis Greek, and argues difference of 
opinion. 

Mar. I hope there is none between us. 

Dan. Here's to thee, brother Martin. {Drinks.) 

Mar. And to thee, Daniel. (Drinks. ) 

Fran. And to thee, Peter. (Drinks.) 

Peter. Thank you, Francis. And here's to 
thee. (Drinks.) 

Mar. I shall be fuddled anon. 

Dan. And drunkenness I hold to be a very 
despicable vice. 

All. ! a shocking vice. ( They drink round). 



10 



JOHN WOODVIL. 



Peter. In as much as it taketh away the under- 
standing. 

Dan. And makes the eyes red. 

Peter. And the tongue to stammer. 

Dan. And to blab out secrets. 

[During this conversation they continue drinking. 

Peter. Some men do not know an enemy from 
a friend when they are drunk. 

Dan. Certainly sobriety is the health of the 
soul. 

Mar. Now I know I am going to be drunk. 

Dan. How canst tell, dry-bones? 

Mar. Because I begin to be melancholy. That's 
always a sign. 

Fran. Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his 
seat else. [Martin drops asleep- 

Peter. Times are greatly altered, since young 
master took upon himself the government of this 
household. 

All. Greatly altered. 
« Fran. I think every thing be altered for the 
better since His Majesty's blessed restoration. 

Peter. In Sir Walter's days there was no 
encouragement given to good house-keeping. 

All. None. 

Dan. For instance, no possibility of getting 
drunk before two in the afternoon. 

Peter. Every man his allowance of ale at 
breakfast — his quart ! 

All. A quart ! ! (In derision.) 

Dan. Nothing left to our own sweet discretions. 

Peter. Whereby it may appear, we were 
treated more like beasts than what we were — 
discreet and reasonable serving-men. 

All. Like beasts. 

Mar. (Opening his eyes.) Like beasts. 

Dan. To sleep, wagtail ! 

Fran. I marvel all this while where the old 
gentleman has found means to secrete himself. It 
seems no man has heard of him since the day of 
the King's return. Can any tell why our young 
master, being favoured by the court, should not 
have interest to procure his father's pardon ? 

Dan. Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the 
old Knight, that will not be beholden to the court 
for his safety. 

Mar. Now that is wilful. 

Fran. But can any tell me the place of his con- 
cealment ? 

Peter. That cannot I ; but I have my conjec- 
tures. 

Dan. Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the 
man that shall apprehend him. 

Fran. Well, I have my suspicions. 

Peter. And so have I. 

Mar. And I can keep a secret. 



Fran. ( To Peter.) Warwickshire, you mean. 

[Aside. 
Peter. Perhaps not. 

Fran. Nearer, perhaps. 

Peter. I say nothing. 

Dan. I hope there is none' in this company would 
be mean enough to betray him. 

All. Lord surely not. 

[They drink to Sir Walter's safety. 

Fran. I have often wondered how our master 
came to be excepted by name in the late Act of 
Oblivion. 

Dan. Shall I tell the reason. 

All. Ay, do. 

Dan. 'Tis thought he is no great friend to the 
present happy establishment. 

All. O ! monstrous ! 

Peter. Fellow servants, a thought strikes me. 
— Do we or do we not come under the penalties 
of the treason-act, by reason of our being privy 
to this man's concealment. 

All. Truly a sad consideration. 

To them enters Sandford suddenly. 

Sand. You well-fed and unprofitable grooms, 
Maintained for state, not use ; 
You lazy feasters at another's cost, 
That eat like maggots into an estate, 
And do as little work, 
Being indeed but foul excrescences, 
And no just parts in a well-order'd family ; 
You base and rascal imitators, 
Who act up to the height your master's vices, 
But cannot read his virtues in your bond : 
Which of you, as I enter'd spake of betraying ? 
Was it you, or you, or thin-face, was it you ? 

Mar. Whom does he call thin-face ? 

Sand. No prating, loon, but tell me who he was, 
That I may brain the villain with my staff, 
That seeks Sir Walter's life ! 
You miserable men, 

With minds more slavish than your slave's estate, 
Have you that noble bounty so forgot, 
Which took you from the looms, and from the 

ploughs, 
Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, clothed ye, 
And entertain'd ye in a worthy service, 
Where your best wages was the world's repute, 
That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live ? 
Have you forgot too, 
How often in old times 

Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears, 
Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health ?— 
Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies 
Out of the reach of your poor treacheries. 
This learn from me, 
Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues, 



A TRAGEDY. 



Than will unlock themselves to carls like you. 
Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs ? this staff 
Shall teach you better manners else. 

All. Well, we are going. 

Sand. And quickly too, ye had better, for I see 
Young mistress Margaret coming this way. 

{Exeunt all but Sandford. 

Enter Margaret, as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman., 

who, seeing Sandford, retires muttering a curse. 
Sandford. Margaret. 
Sand. Good morrow to my fair mistress. 'Twas 
I saw you, lady, so intent was I [a chance 

On chiding hence these graceless serving-men, 
Who cannot break their fast at morning meals 
Without debauch and mis-timed riotings. 
This house hath been a scene of nothing else 
But atheist riot and profane excess, 
Since my old master quitted all his rights here. 

Marg. Each day I endure fresh insult from the 

Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests [scorn 

And free discourses of the dissolute men 

That haunt this mansion, making me their mirth. 

Sand. Does my young master know of these 

affronts ? 
Marg. I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been 

told. 
Perhaps he might have seen them if he would. 
I have kno wn him more quick-sighted. Let that pass. 
All things seem changed, I think. I had a friend, 
(I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,) 
These things are best forgotten ; but I knew 
A man, a young man, young, and full of honour, 
That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw, 
And fought it out to the extremity, 
E'en with the dearest friend he had alive, 
On but a bare surmise, a possibility, 
That Margaret had suffer'd an affront. 
Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once. 
Sand. 'Twere best he should be told of these 

affronts. 
Marg. I am the daughter of his father's friend, 
Sir Walter's orphan ward. 
I am not his servant maid, that I should wait 
The opportunity of a gracious hearing, 
Enquire the times and seasons when to put 
My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet, 
And sue to him for slow redress, who was 
Himself a suitor late to Margaret. 
I am somewhat proud: and Woodviltaughtme pride ; 
I was his favourite once, his playfellow in infancy 
And joyful mistress of his youth. 
None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret, 
His conscience, his religion, Margaret was, 
His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart, 
And all dear things summ'd up in her alone. 



As Margaret smiled or frown'd John lived or died ; 

His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all 

Being fashion'd to her liking. 

His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem, 

His flatteries and caresses, while he loved. 

The world esteem'd her happy, who had won 

His heart, who won all hearts ; 

And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil. 

Sand. He doth affect the courtier's life too much, 
Whose art is to forget, 

And that has wrought this seeming change in him, 
That was by nature noble. 

'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house, 
Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy 
With images of state, preferment, place, 
Tainting his generous spirits with ambition. 

Marg. I know not how it is ; 
A cold protector is John grown to me. 
The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil 
Can never stoop so low to supplicate 
A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs, 
Which he was bound first to prevent ; 
But which his own neglects have sanction'd rather, 
Both sanction'd and provoked : a mark'd neglect, 
And strangeness fastening bitter on his love, 
His love, which long has been upon the wane. 
For me, I am determined what to do : 
To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John, 
And trust for food to the earth and Providence. 

Sand. lady, have a care 
Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves. 
You know not half the dangers that attend 
Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now, 
Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger, 
To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely, 
Portray without its terrors, painting lies 
And representments of fallacious liberty — 
You know not what it is to leave the roof that 
shelters you. 

Marg. I have thought on every possible event, 
The dangers and discouragements you speak of, 
Even till my woman's heart hath ceased to fear them, 
And cowardice grows enamour'd of rare accidents. 
Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think, 
Of practicable schemes. 

Sand. Now God forbid ; think twice of this, dear 
lady. 

Marg. I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford, 
And once for all believe, nothing can shake my 
purpose. 

Sand. But what course have you thought on ? 

Marg. To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sher- 
I have letters from young Simon, [wood 

Acquainting me with all the circumstances 
Of their concealment, place, and manner of life, 
And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts 



18 



JOHN WOODVIL. 



Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a 

house 
In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners, 
Wearing the dress of Frenchmen. — 
All which I have perused with so attent 
And child-like longings, that to my doting ears 
Two sounds now seem like one, 
One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty. 
And, gentle Mr. Sandford, 
'Tis you that must provide now 
The means of my departure, which for safety 
Must he in boy's apparel. 

Sand. Since you will have it so 
(My careful age trembles at all may happen), 
I will engage to furnish you. 
I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you 
With garments to your size. 



I know a suit 

Of lively Lincoln green, that shall much grace you 
In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but seldom. 
Young Stephen Woodvil wore them while he lived. 
I have the keys of all this house and passages, 
And ere day -break will rise and let you forth. 
What things soe'er you have need of I can furnish 

you; 
And will provide a horse and trusty guide, 
To bear you on your way to Nottingham. 
Marg. That once this day and night were fairly 

past ! 
For then I'll bid this house and love farewell ; 
Farewell, sweet Devon ; farewell, lukewarm John ; 
For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone. 
Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford. — 

[Exeunt divers ways. 



ACT THE SECOND. 



Scenk.— An Apartment in Woodvil Hall. 



John Woodvil — alone. 
(Reading Parts of a letter.) 
" When Love grows cold, and indifference has 
usurped upon old Esteem, it is no marvel if the 
world begin to account that dependence, which 
hitherto has been esteemed honourable shelter. 
The course I have taken, (in leaving this house, 
not easily wrought thereunto,) seemed to me best 
for the once-for-all releasing of yourself (who in 
times past have deserved well of me) from the 
now daily, and not-to-be-endured tribute of forced 
love, and ill-dissembled reluctance of affection. 
" Margaret." 

Gone ! gone ! my girl ? so hasty, Margaret ! 
And never a kiss at parting ? shallow loves, 
And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies, 
And show red eyes at parting. Who bids " Fare- 
well" 
In the same tone he cries "God speed you, sir ?" 
Or tells of joyful victories at sea, 
Where he hath ventures ; does not rather muffle 
His organs to emit a leaden sound, 
To suit the melancholy dull "farewell," 
Which they in Heav&i not use ? — 
So peevish, Margaret % 
But 'tis the common error of your sex 
When our idolatry slackens, or grows less, 
(As who of woman born can keep his faculty 
Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty, 
For ever strained to the pitch ? or can at pleasure 



Make it renewable, as some appetites are, 

As, namely, Hunger, Thirst ? — ),this being the case, 

They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold, 

Coin plainings of the perfidy of men, 

Which into maxims pass, and apothegms 

To be retail'd in ballads. — 

I. know them all. 
They are jealous, when our larger hearts receive 
More guests than one. (Love in a woman's heart 
Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have 

room here 
For more disturbers of my sleep than one. 
Love shall have part, but love shall not have all. 
Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns, 
Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and waking ; 

Yet love not be excluded Foolish wench, 

I could have loved her twenty years to come, 
And still have kept my liking. But since 'tis so, 
Why, fare thee well, old play-fellow ! I'll try 
To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance' sake 
I shall not grudge so much. 

(To Mm enters Lovel.) 

Lovel. Bless us, Woodvil ! what is the matter? 
I protest, man, I thought you had been weeping. 

Wood. Nothing is the matter ; only the wench 
has forced some water into my eyes, which will 
quickly disband. 

Lovel. I cannot conceive you. 

Wood. Margaret is flown. 

Lovel. Upon what pretence ? 

Wood. Neglect on my part : which it seems she 
has had the wit to discover, maugre all my pains 
to conceal it. 



A TRAGEDY. 



W 



Lovel. Then you confess the charge. 

Wood. To say the truth, my love for her has 
of late stopped short on this side idolatry. 

Lovel. As all good Christians' should, I think. 

Wood. I am sure, I could have loved her still 
within the limits of warrantable love. 

Lovel. A kind of brotherly affection, I take it. 

Wood. We should have made excellent man 
and wife in time. 

Lovel. A good old couple, when the snows fell, 
to crowd about a sea-coal fire, and talk over old 
matters. 

Wood. While each should feel, what neither 
cared to acknowledge, that stories oft repeated 
may, at last, come to lose some of their grace by 
the repetition. 

Lovel. Which both of you may yet live long 
enough to discover. For, take my word for it, 
Margaret is a bird that will come back to you 
without a lure. 

Wood. Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, 
with tears I confess it, she was a lady of most con- 
firmed honour, of an unmatchable spirit, and deter- 
minate in all virtuous resolutions ; not hasty to 
anticipate an affront, nor slow to feel, where just 
provocation was given. 

Lovel. What made you neglect her, then ? 

Wood. Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, 
a malady incident to young men ; physicians call it 
caprice. Nothing else. He that slighted her 
knew her value : and 'tis odds, but, for thy sake, 
Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor. 
\_A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing. 

Lovel. Here comes one that will quickly dis- 
sipate these humours. 

(Enter one drunk.) 

Drunken Man. Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. 
Mr. Lovel, I am your humble servant. Honest Jack 
Woodvil, I will get drunk with you to-morrow. 

Wood. And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman? 

Drunken Man. I scent a traitor in that question. 
A beastly question. Is it not his Majesty's birth- 
day ? the day of all days in the year, on which 
King Charles the Second was graciously pleased 
to be born. (Sings) "Great pity 'tis such days as 
those should come but once a year." 

Lovel. Drunk in a morning! foh! how he 
stinks ! 

Drunken Man. And why not drunk in a morn- 
ing ? canst tell, bully ? 

Wood. Because, being the sweet and tender 
infancy of the day, methinks it should ill endure 
such early blightings. 

Drunken Man. I grant you, 'tis in some sort 
the youth and tender nonage of the day. Youth 



is bashful, and I give it a cup to encourage it. 
(Sings.) "Ale that will make Grimalkin prate." 
— At noon I drink for thirst, at night for fellow- 
ship, but, above all, I love to usher in the bashful 
morning under the auspices of a freshening stoop 
of liquor. (Sings) " Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, 
makes valour burgeon in tall men." — But, I crave 
pardon. I fear I keep that gentleman from serious 
thoughts. There be those that wait for me in the 
cellar. 

Wood. Who are they ? 

Drunken Man. Gentleman, my good friends, 
Cleveland, Delaval, and Truby. I know by this 
time they are all clamorous for me. 

{Exit singing. 

Wood. This keeping of open house acquaints 
a man with strange companions. 

(Enter, at another door, Three calling for 
Harry Freeman.) 
Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman. 
He is not here. Let us go look for him. 
Where is Freeman ? 
Where is Harry ? 

{Exeunt the Three, calling for Freeman. 

Wood. Did you ever see such gentry? (laughing.) 
These are they that fatten on ale and tobacco in a 
morning, drink burnt brandy at noon to promote 
digestion, and piously conclude with quart bumpers 
after supper to prove their loyalty. 

Lovel. Come, shall we adjourn to .the Tennis 
Court ? 

Wood. No, you shall go with me into the 
gallery, where I will show you the Vandyke I 
have purchased. " The late King taking leave of 
his children." 

Lovel. I will but adjust my dress, and attend 
you. {Exit Lovel. 

John Wood, (alone). Now Universal England 
getteth drunk 
For joy that Charles, her monarch, is restored : 
And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask, 
The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck, 
And weareth now a suit of morris bells, 
With which she jingling goes through all her 

towns and villages. 
The baffled factions in their houses skulk ; 
The commonwealthsman, and state machinist, 
The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man, 
Who heareth of these visionaries now ? 
They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing, 
Where good men yield God thanks ; but politic 

spirits, 
Who live by observation, note these changes 
Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends. 
Then why not I ? What's Charles to me, or Oliver, 



20 



JOHN WOODVIL. 



But as my own advancement hangs on one of them 1 

I to myself am chief. 1 know, 

Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit 
With the gauds and show of state, the point of place, 
And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods 
Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit 
In place of worship at the royal masques, 
Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings, 
For none of these, 

Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one, 
Do I affect the favours of the court. 
I would be great, for greatness hath great power. 
And that's the fruit I reach at. — 
Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit, 
With these prophetic swellings in my breast, 
That prick and goad me on, and never cease, 
To the fortunes something tells me I was born to ? 
Who, with such monitors within to stir him, 
Would sit him down, with lazy arms across, 
A unit, a thing without a name in the state, 
A something to be govern'd, not to govern, 
A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman ? 

[Exit. 

Scene — Sherivood Forest. 

Sir Walter Woodvil. Simon Woodvil. 
(Disguised as Frenchmen.) 

Sir W. How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest 
born, 
My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me \ 
Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart : 
I know it by thy altered eheer of late. 
Thinkest, thy brother plays thy father false? 
It is a mad and thriftless prodigal, 
Grown proud upon the favours of the court ; 
Court manners, and court fashions, he affects, 
And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth, 
Harbours a company of riotous men, 
All hot and young, court-seekers, like himself, 
Most skilful to devour a patrimony ; 
And these have eat into my old estates, 
And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry ; 
But these so common faults of youth not named, 
(Things which themselves outgrow, left to them- 
I know no quality that stains his honour, [selves,) 
My life upon his faith and noble mind, 
Son John could never play thy father false. 

Simon. T never thought but nobly of my brother, 
Touching his honour and fidelity. 
Still I could wish him charier of his person, 
And of his time more frugal, than to spend 
In riotous living, graceless society, 
And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd 
(With those persuasive graces nature lent him) 
In fervent pleadings for a father's life. 



Sir W. I would not owe my life to a jealous 
Whose shallow policy I know it is, [court, 

On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy, 
(Not voluntary, but extorted by the times, 
In the first tremblings of new-fixed power, 
And recollection smarting from old wounds,) 
On these to build a spurious popularity. 
Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean, 
They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon. 
For this cause have I oft forbid my son, 
By letters, overtures, open solicitings, 
Or closet-tamperings, by gold or fee, 
To beg or bargain with the court for my life. 

Simon. And John has ta'en you, father, at your 
True to the letter of his paternal charge, [word, 

Sir W. Well, my good cause, and my good 
conscience, boy, 
Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false* 
Men die but once, and the opportunity 
Of a noble death is not an every.day fortune : 
It is a gift which noble spirits pray for. 

Simon. I would not wrong my brother by surmise; 
I know him generous, full of gentle qualities, 
Incapable of base compliances, 
No prodigal in his nature, but affecting 
This show of bravery for ambitious ends. 
He drinks, for 'tis the humour of the court, 
And drink may one day wrest the secret from him, 
And pluck you from your hiding place in the sequel. 

Sir W. Fair death shall be my doom, and foul 
life his. 
Till when, we'll live as free in this green forest 
As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason ; 
Who seem the aborigines of this place, 
Or Sherwood theirs by tenure. 

Simon. 'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon, 
Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold, 
With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt, 
Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe 
The antique tale ? 

Sir W. There is much likelihood, 
Such bandits did in England erst abound, 
When polity was young. I have read of the pranks 
Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied 
On travellers, whatever their degree, 
Baron, or knight, whoever pass'd these woods, 
Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre 
For spiritual regards ; nay, once, 'tis said, 
He robb'd the king himself. 

Simon. A perilous man {smiling). 

Sir W. How quietly we live here, 
Unread in the world's business; 
And take no note of all its slippery changes. 
'Twere best we make a world among ourselves, 
A little world, 
Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater ; 



A TRAGEDY. 



2! 



We two being all the inhabitants of ours, 
And kings and subjects both in one. 

Simon. Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits, 
Which make the business of that greater world, 
Must have no place in ours : 

As, namely, riches, honours, birth, place, courtesy, 
Good fame and bad, rumours and popular noises, 
Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national, 
Humours particular, 

Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good, 
Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships, 
Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies, 
And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of. 

(Margaret enters in boy's apparel.) 

Sir W. What pretty boy have we here ? 

Marg. Bon jour, messieurs. Ye have handsome 
English faces, 
I should have ta'en you else for other two, 
I came to seek in the forest. 

Sir W. Who are they \ 

Marg. A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curl'd 
monsieurs, 
That, men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy, 
More than the manner of their countrymen. 

Simon. We have here a wonder. 
The face is Margaret's face. 

Sir W. The face is Margaret's, but the dress 
My Stephen sometime wore. [the same 

(To Margaret.) 
Suppose us them ; whom do men say we are ? 
Or know you what you seek ? 

Marg. A worthy pair of exiles, 
Two whom the politics of state revenge, 
In final issue of long civil broils, 
Have houseless driven from your native France, 
To wander idle in these English woods, 
Where now ye live ; most part 
Thinking on home, and all the joys of France, 
Where grows the purple vine. 

Sir W. These woods, young stranger, 
And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves, 
Are they less beauteous than the land of France, 
Where grows the purple vine 1 

Marg. I cannot tell. 
To an indifferent eye both show alike. 
'Tis not the scene, 

But all familiar objects in the scene, 
Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference. 
Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now ; 
Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have 

nothing ; 
Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign 

to you, 
I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily ; 
And there is reason, exiles, ye should love 



Our English earth less than your land of France, 
Where grows the purple vine ; where all delights 
Old custom has made pleasant. [grow 

Sir W. You, that are read 
So deeply in our story, what are you ? 

Marg. A bare adventurer ; in brief a woman, 
That put strange garments on, and came thus far 
To seek an ancient friend : 
And having spent her stock of idle words, 
And feeling some tears coming, 
Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees, 
And beg a boon for Margaret ; his poor ward. 

[Kneeling, 

Sir W. Not at my feet, Margaret ; not at my 
feet. 

Marg. Yes, till her suit is answered. 

Sir W. Name it. 

Marg. A little boon, and yet so great a grace, 
She fears to ask it. 

Sir W. Some riddle, Margaret ? 

Marg. No riddle, but a plain request. 

Sir W. Name it. 

Marg. Free liberty of Sherwood, 
And leave to take her lot with you in the forest. 

Sir W. A scant petition, Margaret ; but take it, 
Seal'd with an old man's tears. — 
Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland. 

(Addresses them both.) 

you most worthy, 
You constant followers of a man proscribed, 
Following poor misery in the throat of danger ; 
Fast servitors to crazed and penniless poverty, 
Serving poor poverty without hope of gain ; 
Kind children of a sire unfortunate ; 
Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay'd, 
Which needs must bring on you timeless decay ;, 
Fair living forms to a dead carcase join'd ; — 
What shall I say ? 

Better the dead were gather'd to the dead, 
Than death and life in disproportion meet. — 
Go, seek your fortunes, children. — 

Simon. Why, whither should we go I 

Sir W. You to the Court, where now your 
Commits a rape on Fortune. [brother John 

Simon. Luck to John ! 
A light-heel'd strumpet, when the sport is done. 

Sir W. You to the sweet society of your equals, 
Where the world's fashion smiles on youth and 
beauty. 

Marg. Where young men's flatteries cozen 
young maids' beauty. 
There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty, 
There sweet humility withers. 

Simon. Mistress Margaret, 
How fared my brother John, when you left Devon ? 

Marg. John was well, sir. 



22 



JOHN WOODVIL. 



Simon. 'Tis now nine months almost, 
Since I saw home. What new friends has John 

made ? 
Or keeps he his first love ? — I did suspect 
Some foul disloyalty. Now do I know, 
John has proved false to her, for Margaret weeps. 
It is a scurvy brother. 

Sir W. Fie upon it. 
All men are false, I think. The date of love 
Is out, expired ; its stories all grown stale, 
O'erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale 
Of Hero and Leander. 

Simon. I have known some men that are too 
general-contemplative for the narrow passion. I 
am in some sort a general lover. 

Marg. In the name of the boy god, who plays 
at hoodman blind with the Muses, and cares not 
whom he catches : what is it you love % 

Simon. Simply, all things that live, 
From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form, 
And God-resembling likeness. The poor fly, 
That makes short holiday in the sun beam, 
And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird 
With little wings, yet greatly venturous 
In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element, 
That knows no touch of eloquence. What else ? 
Yon tall and elegant stag, 
Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns 
In the water, where he drinks. 

Marg. I myself love all these things, yet 
so as with a difference : — for example, some ani- 
mals better than others, some men rather than 
other men ; the nightingale before the cuckoo, 
the swift and graceful palfrey before the slow and 
asinine mule. Your humour goes to confound all 
qualities. 
What sports do you use in the forest ? — 

Simon. Not many ; some few, as thus : — 
To see the sun to bed, and to arise, 
Like some hot amourist with glowing eyes, 
Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him, 
With all his fires and travelling glories round 
him. 



Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest, 

Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast, 

And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep 

Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep. 

Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness, 

Nought doing, saying little, thinking less, 

To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air, 

Go eddying round ; and small birds, how they fare, 

When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn, 

Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn ; 

And how the woods berries and worms provide 

Without their pains, when earth has nought beside 

To answer their small wants. 

To view the graceful deer come tripping by, 

Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why, 

Like bashful younkers in society. 

To mark the structure of a plant or tree, 

And all fair things of earth, how fair they be. 

Marg. (smiling.) And, afterwards, them paint 
in simile. 

Sir W. Mistress Margaret will have need of 
some refreshment. Please you, we have some 
poor viands within. 

Marg. Indeed I stand in need of them. 

Sir W. Under the shade of a thick-spreading 
tree, 
Upon the grass, no better carpeting, 
We'll eat our noon-tide meal ; and, dinner done, 
One of us shall repair to Nottingham, 
To seek some safe night-lodging in the town, 
Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell, 
By day, in the forest, expecting better times, 
And gentler habitations, noble Margaret. 

Simon. Allons, young Frenchman — 

Marg. Allons, Sir Englishman. The time has 
been 
I've studied love-lays in the English tongue, 
And been enamour' d of rare poesy : 
Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth, 
Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu ; 
For Margaret has got new name and language 
new. 

[Exeunt. 



A TRAGEDY. 



23 



ACT THE THIRD. 



Scene.— An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall. 

Cavaliers drinking. 

John Woodvil, Lovel, Gray, and four more. 

John. More mirth, I beseech you, gentlemen — 
Mr. Gray, you are not merry 

Gray. More wine, say I, and mirth shall ensue 
in course. What ! we have not yet above three 
half-pints a man to answer for. Brevity is the 
soul of drinking, as of wit. Despatch, I say. More 
wine. (Fills.) 

First Gent. I entreat you, let there be 
some order, some method, in our drinkings. I 
love to lose my reason with my eyes open, to 
commit the deed of drunkenness with forethought 
and deliberation. I love to feel the fumes of the 
liquor gathering here, like clouds. 

Second Gent. And I am for plunging into 
madness at once. Damn order, and method, 
and steps, and degrees, that he speaks of. Let 
confusion have her legitimate work. 

Lovel. I marvel why the poets, who, of all 
men, methinks, should possess the hottest livers, 
and most empyreal fancies, should affect to see 
such virtues in cold water. 

Gray. Virtue in cold water ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — 

John. Because your poet-born hath an internal 
wine, richer than lippara or canaries, yet uncrushed 
from any grapes of earth, unpressed in mortal 
wine-presses. 

Third Gent. What may be the name of this 
wine ? 

John. It hath as many names as qualities. It 
is denominated indifferently, wit, conceit, invention, 
inspiration, but its most royal and comprehensive 
name is fancy. 

Third Gent. And where keeps he this sove- 
reign liquor \ 

John. Its cellars are in the brain, whence your 
true poet deriveth intoxication at will ; while his 
animal spirits, catching a pride from the quality 
and neighbourhood of their noble relative, the 
brain, refuse to be sustained by wines and fer- 
mentations of earth. 

Third Gent. But is your poet-born always 
tipsy with this liquor ? 

John. He hath Ins stoopings and reposes ; but 
his proper element is the sky, and in the suburbs 
of the empyrean. 



Third Gent. Is your wine-intellectual so exqui- 
site ? henceforth, I, a man of plain conceit, will, 
in all humility, content'my mind with canaries. 

Fourth Gent. I am for a song or a catch. 
When will the catches come on, the sweet wicked 
catches ? 

John. They cannot be introduced with pro- 
priety before midnight. Every man must commit 
his twenty bumpers first. We are not yet well 
roused. Frank Lovel, the glass stands with you. 

Lovel. Gentlemen, the Duke. (Fills.) 

All. The Duke. ( They drink.) 

Gray. Can any tell, why his Grace, being a 
Papist — 

John. Pshaw ! we will have no questions of 
state now. Is not this his Majesty's birth- day ? 

Gray. What follows % 

John. That every man should sing, and be 
j oyful, and ask no questions. 

Second Gent. Damn politics, they spoil drinking. 

Third Gent. For certain, 'tis a blessed mon- 
archy. 

Second Gent. The cursed fanatic days we have 
seen ! The times have been when swearing was 
out of fashion. 

Third Gent. And drinking. 

First Gent. And wenching. 

Gray. The cursed yeas and forsooths, which 
we have heard uttered, when a man could not rap 
out an innocent oath, but straight the air was 
thought to be infected. 

Lovel. 'Twas a pleasant trick of the saint, which 
that trim puritan Swear-not-at-all Smooth-speech 
used, when his spouse chid him with an oath for 
committing with his servant maid, to cause his 
house to be fumigated with burnt brandy and 
ends of scripture, to disperse the devil's breath, as 
he termed it. 

All. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Gray. But 'twas pleasanter, when the other 
saint Resist- the - devil- and-he - will- flee -from - thee 
Pureman was overtaken in the act, to plead an 
illusio visus, and maintain his sanctity upon a 
supposed power in the adversary to counterfeit the 
shapes of things. 

All. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

John. Another round, and then let every man 
devise what trick he can in his fancy, for the 
better manifesting our loyalty this day. 



24 



JOHN WOODVIL. 



Gray. Shall we hang a puritan ? 

John. No, that has been done already in Cole- 
man-street. 

Second Gent. Or fire a conventicle ? 

John. That is stale too. 

Third Gent. Or burn the Assembly's catechism ? 

Fourth Gent. Or drink the king's health every 
man standing upon his head naked ? 

John (to Lovel). We have here some pleasant 
madness. 

Third Gent. Who shall pledge me in a pint 
bumper while we drink to the king upon our knees ? 

Lovel. Why on our knees, Cavalier ? 

John (smiling). For more devotion, to be sure. 
(To a Servant.) Sirrah, fetch the gilt goblets. 

[The goblets are brought. They drink the king's 
health, kneeling. A shout of general approbation 
following the first appearance of the goblets. 

John. We have here the unchecked virtues of 
the grape. How the vapours curl upwards ! It 
were a life of gods to dwell in such an element : 
to see, and hear, and talk brave things. Now fie 
upon these casual potations. That a man's most 
exalted reason should depend upon the ignoble 
fermenting of a fruit, which sparrows pluck at as 
well as we. 

Gray (aside to Lovel). Observe how he is 
ravished. 

Lovel. Vanity and gay thoughts of wine do meet 
in him and engender madness. 

[While the rest are engaged in a wild kind of talk, 
John advances to the front of the stage, and soli- 
loquizes. 

John. My spirits turn to fire, they mount so fast. 
My joys are turbulent, my hopes show like fruition. 
These high and gusty relishes of life, sure, 
Have no allayings of mortality in them. 
I am too hot now and o'ercapable, 
For the tedious processes, and creeping wisdom, 
Of human acts, and enterprises of a man. 
I want some seasonings of adversity, 
Some strokes of the old mortifier Calamity, 
To take these swellings down, divines call vanity. 

First Gent. Mr. Woodvil, Mr. Woodvil. 

Second Gent. Where is Woodvil ? 

Gray. Let him alone. I have seen him in these 
lunes before. His abstractions must not taint the 
good mirth. 

John (continuing to soliloquize). for some 
friend now, 
To conceal nothing from, to have no secrets. 
How fine and noble a thing is confidence, 
How reasonable too, and almost godlike ! 
Fast cement of fast friends, band of society. 
Old natural go-between in the world's business, 
Where civil life and order, wanting this cement, 



Would presently rush back 

Into the pristine state of singularity, 

And each man stand alone. 

(A Servant enters.) 

Servant. Gentlemen, the fireworks are ready. 

First Gent. What be they ? 

Lovel. The work of London artists, which our 
host has provided in honour of this day. 

Second Gent. 'Sdeath, who would part with his 
wine for a rocket ? 

Lovel. Why truly, gentlemen, as our kind host 
has been at the pains to provide this spectacle, we 
can do no less than be present at it. It will not 
take up much time. Every man may return fresh 
and thirsting to his liquor. 

Third Gent. There's reason in what he says. 

Second Gent. Charge on then, bottle in hand. 
There's husbandry in that. 

[They go out, singing. Only Lovel remains, who 
observes Woodvil. 

John (still talking to himself). This Lovel here's 

of a tough honesty, 
Would put the rack to the proof. He is not of that 

sort, 
Which haunt my house, snorting the liquors, 
And when their wisdoms are afloat with wine, 
Spend vows as fast as vapours, which go off 
Even with the fumes, their fathers. He is one, 
Whose sober morning actions 
Shame not his o'ernight's promises ; 
Talks little, flatters less, and makes no promises ; 
Why this is he, whom the dark-wisdom'd fate 
Might trust her counsels of predestination with, 
And the world be no loser. 

Why should I fear this man? [Seeing Lovel. 

Where is the company gone ? 

Lovel. To see the fireworks, where you will be 
expected to follow. But I perceive you are better 



John. I have been meditating this half hour 
On all the properties of a brave friendship, 
The mysteries that are in it, the noble uses, 
Its limits withal, and its nice boundaries. 
Exempli gratia, how far a man 
May lawfully forswear himself for his friend ; 
What quantity of lies, some of them brave ones, 
He may lawfully incur in a friend's behalf ; 
What oaths, blood-crimes, hereditary quarrels, 
Night brawls, fierce words, and duels in the morning, 
He need not stick at, to maintain his friend's 
honour, or his cause. 

Lovel. I think many men would die for their 
friends. 

John. Death ! why 'tis nothing. We go to it 
for sport, 



A TRAGEDY. 



25 



To gain a name, or purse, or please a sullen humour, 
When one has worn his fortune's livery thread- 
bare, 
Or his spleen'd mistress frowns. Husbands will 

venture on it, 
To cure the hot fits and cold shakings of jealousy. 
A friend, sir, must do more. 

Lovel. Can he do more than die ? 

John. To serve a friend this he may do. Pray 
mark me. 
Having a law within (great spirits feel one) 
He cannot, ought not, to be bound by any 
Positive laws or ord'nances extern, 
But may reject all these : by the law of friendship 
He may do so much, be they, indifferently, 
Penn'd statutes, or the land's written usages, 
As public fame, civil compliances, 
Misnamed honour, trust in matter of secrets, 
All vows and promises, the feeble mind's religion, 
(Binding our morning knowledge to approve 
What last night's ignorance spake) ; 
The ties of blood withal, and prejudice of kin. 
Sir, tliese weak terrors 

Must never shake me. I know what belongs 
To a worthy friendship. Come, you shall have my 
confidence. 

Lovel. I hope you think me worthy. 

John. You will smile to hear now — 
Sir Walter never has been out of the island. 

Lovel. You amaze me. 

John. That same report of his escape to France 
Was a fine tale, forged by myself — 
Ha ! ha ! 
I knew it would stagger him. 

Lovel. Pray, give me leave. 
Where has he dwelt, how lived, how lain conceal'd ? 
Sure I may ask so much. 

John. From place to place, dwelling in no place 
long, 
My brother Simon still hath borne him company 
('Tis a brave youth, I envy him all his virtues). 
Disguised in foreign garb, they pass for Frenchmen, 
Two Protestant exiles from the Limousin 
Newly arrived. Their dwelling's now at Nottingham, 
Where no soul knows them. 

Lovel. Can you assign any reason, why a gen- 
tleman of Sir Walter's known prudence should 
expose his person so lightly ? 

John. I believe, a certain fondness, 
A child-like cleaving to the land that gave him birth, 
Chains him like fate. 

Lovel. I have known some exiles thus 
To linger out the term of the law's indulgence, 
To the hazard of being known. 

John. You may suppose sometimes 
They use the neighb'ring Sherwood for their sport, 



Their exercise and freer recreation. — ■ 
I see you smile. Pray now be careful. 

Lovel. I am no babbler, sir ; you need not 

fear me. 
John. But some men have been known to talk 
in their sleep, 
And tell fine tales that way. 

Lovel. I have heard so much. But, to say truth 

I mostly sleep alone. 
John. Or drink, sir % do you never drink too 
freely 1 
Some men will drink, and tell you all their secrets. 
Lovel. Why do you question me, who know my 

habits 1 
John. I think you are no sot, 
No tavern-troubler, worshipper of the grape ; 
But all men drink sometimes, 
And veriest saints at festivals relax, 
The marriage of a friend, or a wife's birth-day. 
Lovel. How much, sir, may a man with safety 
drink % [Smiling. 

John. Sir, three half pints a day is reasonable ; 
I care not if you never exceed that quantity. 

Lovel. I shall observe it ; 
On holidays two quarts. 

John. Or stay ; you keep no wench ? 
Lovel. Ha ! 

John. No painted mistress for your private 
hours % 
You keep no whore, sir % 

Lovel. What does he mean ? 
John. Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin, 
And amorous praising of your worship's breath, 
In rosy junction of four melting lips, 
Can kiss out secrets from you % 

Lovel. How strange this passionate behaviour 
shows in you ! 
Sure you think me some weak one. 

John. Pray pardon me some fears. 
You have now the pledge of a dear father's life. 
I am a son — would fain be thought a loving one ; 
You may allow me some fears : do not despise me, 
If, in a posture foreign to my spirit, 
And by our well-knit friendship I conjure you, 
Touch not Sir Walter's life. [Kneels. 

You see these tears. My father 's an old man. 
Pray let him live. 

Lovel. I must be bold to tell you, these new 
freedoms 
Show most unhandsome in you. 

John (rising). Ha! do you say so? 
Sure, you are not grown proud upon my secret ! 
Ah ! now I see it plain. He would be babbling. 
No doubt a garrulous and hard-faced traitor — 
But I'll not give you leave. [Draws. 

Lovel. What does this madman mean ? 



26 



JOHN WOODVIL. 



John. Come, sir ; here is no subterfuge. 
You must kill me, or I kill you. 

Lovel {drawing). Then self-defence plead my 
excuse. 
Have at you, sir. {They fight. 

John. Stay, sir. 
I hope you have made your will. 
If not, 'tis no great matter. 
A broken cavalier has seldom much 
He can bequeath : an old worn peruke, 
A snuff-box with a picture of Prince Rupert, 
A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby, 
Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place ; 
And, if he's very rich, 
A cheap edition of the Icon Basilike, 
Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of. 
You say few prayers, I fancy ; — 
So to it again. 

{They fight again. Lovel is disarmed. 

Lovel. You had best now take my life. I guess 
you mean it. 



John (musing). No : — Men will say I fear'd him, 

if I kill'd him. 
Live still, and be a traitor in thy wish, 
But never act thy thought, being a coward. 
That vengeance which thy soul shall nightly thirst 
And this disgrace I've done you cry aloud for, [for, 
Still have the will without the power to execute. 
So now I leave you, 
Feeling a sweet security. No doubt 
My secret shall remain a virgin for you ! — 

{Goes out smiling, in scorn. 
Lovel (rising). For once you are mistaken in 

your man. 
The deed you wot of shall forthwith be done. 
A bird let loose, a secret out of hand, 
Returns not back. Why, then 'tis baby policy 
To menace him who hath it in his keeping. 
I will go look for Gray ; 

Then northward ho ! such tricks as we shall play 
Have not been seen, I think, in merry Sherwood, 
Since the days of Robin Hood, that archer good. 



ACT THE FOURTH. 



Scene— A n Apartment in Woodvil Hall. 

john woodvil. (Alone.) 
A weight of wine lies heavy on my head, 
The unconcocted follies of last night. 
Now all those jovial fancies and bright hopes, 
Children of wine, go off like dreams. 
This sick vertigo here 

Preacheth of temperance, no sermon better. 
These black thoughts, and dull melancholy, 
That stick like burrs to the brain, will they ne'er 

leave me ? 
Some men are full of choler, when they are drunk ; 
Some brawl of matter foreign to themselves ; 
And some, the most resolved fools of all, 
Have told their dearest secrets in their cups. 



Scene— The Forest. 

Sib Walter. Simon. Lovel. Gray. 

Lovel. Sir, we are sorry we cannot return your 
French salutation. 

Gray. Nor otherwise consider this garb you 
trust to than as a poor disguise. 

Lovel. Nor use much ceremony with a traitor. 

Gray. Therefore, without much induction of 
superfluous words, I attach you, Sir Walter 
Woodvil, of High Treason, in the King's name. 



Lovel. And of taking part in the great Rebellion 
against our late lawful Sovereign, Charles the 
First. 

Simon. John has betrayed us, father. 

Lovel. Come, sir, you had best surrender 
fairly. We know you, sir. 

Simon. Hang ye, villains, ye are two better 
known than trusted. I have seen these faces 
before. Are ye not two beggarly retainers, 
trencher-parasites, to John ? I think ye rank 
above his footmen. A sort of bed and board 
worms — locusts that infest our house ; a leprosy 
that long has hung upon its walls and princely 
apartments, reaching to fill all the corners of my 
brother's once noble heart. 

Gray. We are his friends. 

Simon. Fie, sir, do not weep. How these 
rogues will triumph ! Shall I whip off their 
heads, father % {Draws. 

Lovel. Come, sir, though this show handsome 
in you, being his son, yet the law must have its 
course. 

Simon. And if I tell you the law shall not have 
its course, cannot ye be content ? Courage, 
father ; shall such things as these apprehend a 
man ? Which of ye will venture upon me ? — 
Will you, Mr. Constable self-elect ? or you, sir, 
with a pimple on your nose, got at Oxford by 
hard drinking, your only badge of loyalty ? 



A TRAGEDY. 



27 



Gray. 'Tis a brave youth — I cannot strike at 
him. 

Simon. Father, why do you cover your face 
with your hands ? Why do you fetch your 
breath so hard ? See, villains, his heart is burst ! 
villains, he cannot speak. One of you run for 
some water : quickly, ye knaves ; will ye have 
your throats cut ? f They both slink off. 

How is it with you, Sir Walter ? Look up, sir, 
the villains are gone. He hears me not, and this 
deep disgrace of treachery in his son hath touched 
him even to the death. most distuned and 
distempered world, where sons talk their aged 
fathers into their graves ! Garrulous and diseased 
world, and still empty, rotten and hollow talking 
world, where good men decay, states turn round 
in an endless mutability, and still for the worse ; 
nothing is at a stay, nothing abides but vanity, 
chaotic vanity. — Brother, adieu ! 

There lies the parent stock which gave us life, 
Which I will see consign'd with tears to earth. 
Leave thou the solemn funeral rites to me, 
Grief and a true remorse abide with thee. 

[Bears in the body. 

Scene — Another Part of the Forest. 

Marg. {alone.) It was an error merely, and 
An unsuspecting openness in youth, [no crime, 
That from his lips the fatal secret drew, 
Which should have slept like one of nature's 
Unveil'd by any man. [mysteries, 

Well, he is dead ! 

And what should Margaret do in the forest ? 
ill-starr'd John ! 

Woodvil, man enfeoffed to despair ! 
Take thy farewell of peace. 
O never look again to see good days, 
Or close thy lids in comfortable nights, 
Or ever think a happy thought again, 
If what I have heard be true. — 
Forsaken of the world must Woodvil live, 
If he did tell these men. 

No tongue must speak to him, no tongue of man 
Salute him, when he wakes up in a morning ; 
Or bid " good night " to John. Who seeks to live 
In amity with thee, must for thy sake 
Abide the world's reproach. What then? 
Shall Margaret join the clamours of the world 
Against her friend % undiscerning world, 
That cannot from misfortune separate guilt, 
No, not in thought ! never, never, John. 
Prepared to share the fortunes of her friend 
For better or for worse thy Margaret comes, 
To pour into thy wounds a healing love, 



And wake the memory of an ancient friendship. 
And pardon me, thou spirit of Sir Walter, 
Who, in compassion to the wretched living, 
Have but few tears to waste upon the dead. 



Scene — Woodvil Hall. 



Sandford. Margaret. 
(As from a Journey-) 

Sand. The violence of the sudden mischance 
hath so wrought in him, who by nature is allied 
to nothing less than a self -debasing humour of 
dejection, that I have never seen anything more 
changed and spirit-broken. He hath, with a 
peremptory resolution, dismissed the partners of 
his riots and late hours, denied his house and 
person to their most earnest solicitings, and will be 
seen by none. He keeps ever alone, and his 
grief (which is solitary) does not so much seem to 
possess and govern in him, as it is by him, with a 
wilfulness of most manifest affection, entertained 
and cherished. 

Marg. How bears he up against the common 
rumour ? 

Sand. With a strange indifference, which who- 
soever dives not into the niceness of his sorrow 
might mistake for obdurate and insensate. Yet 
are the wings of his pride for ever dipt ; and yet 
a virtuous predominance of filial grief is so ever 
uppermost, that you may discover his thoughts 
less troubled with conjecturing what living 
opinions will say, and judge of his deeds, than 
absorbed and buried with the dead, whom his 
indiscretion made so. 

Marg, I knew a greatness ever to be resident 
in him, to which the admiring eyes of men should 
look up even in the declining and bankrupt state 
of his pride. Fain would I see him, fain talk 
with him ; but that a sense of respect, which is 
violated, when without deliberation we press into 
the society of the unhappy, checks and holds me 
back. How, think you, he would bear my 
presence 1 

Sand. As of an assured friend, whom in the 
forgetfulness of his fortunes he past by. See him 
you must ; but not to-night. The newness of the 
sight shall move the bitterest compunction and 
the truest remorse ; but afterwards, trust me, 
dear lady, the happiest effects of a returning 
peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, to you, and 
all of us. 

Marg. I think he would not deny me. He 
hath ere this received farewell letters from his 
brother, who hath taken a resolution to estrange 
himself, for a time, from country, friends, and 



28 



JOHN WOODVIL. 



kindred, and to seek occupation for his sad 
thoughts in travelling in foreign places, where 
sights remote and extern to himself may draw 
from him kindly and not painful ruminations. 

Sand. I was present at the receipt of the letter. 
The contents seemed to affect him, for a moment, 
with a more lively passion of grief than he has at 
any time outwardly shown. He wept with many 
tears (which I had not before noted in him), and 
appeared to be touched with the sense as of some 
unkindness ; but the cause of their sad separation 
and divorce quickly recurring, he presently 
returned to his former inwardness of suffering;. 



Marg. The reproach of his brother's presence 
at this hour would have been a weight more than 
could be sustained by his already oppressed and 
sinking spirit. — Meditating upon these intricate 
and wide-spread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness 
upon me, as of sleep. How goes the night? — 

Sand. An hour past sun- set. You shall first 
refresh your limbs (tired with travel) with meats 
and some cordial wine, and then betake your no 
less wearied mind to repose. 

Marg. A good rest to us all. 

Sand. Thanks, lady. 



ACT THE FIFTH, 



John Woodvil {dressing). 
John. How beautiful {handling his mourning) 
And comely do these mourning garments show ! 
Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here, 
To claim the world's respect ! they note so feelingly 
By outward types the serious man within. — 
Alas ! what part or portion can I claim 
In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow, 
Which other mourners use % as namely, 
This black attire, abstraction from society, 
Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom 
A cleaving sadness native to the brow, [smiles, 
All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends 
(That steal away the sense of loss almost), 
Men's pity, and good offices 
Which enemies themselves do for us then, 
Putting their hostile disposition off, 
As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks. 

[Pauses, and observes the pictures. 
These pictures must be taken down : 
The portraitures of our most ancient family 
For nigh three hundred years ! How have I listen' d, 
To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride, 
Holding me in his arms, a prating boy, 
And pointing to the pictures where they hung, 
Repeat by course their worthy histories 
(As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name, 
And Anne the handsome, Stephen, and famous 
Telling me, I must be his famous John). [John : 
But that was in old times. 
Now, no more 

Must I grow proud upon our house's pride. 
I rather, I, by most unheard-of crimes, 
Have backward tainted all their noble blood, 
Rased out the memory of an ancient family, 
And quite reversed the honours of our house. 
Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes ? 



The secret history of his own times, 
And fashions of the world when he was young : 
How England slept out three -and->twenty years, 
While Carr and Villiers ruled the baby king : 
The costly fancies of the pedant's reign, 
Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory, 
And Beauties of the court of James the First. 

Margaret enters. 

John. Comes Margaret here to witness my dis- 
0, lady, I have suffer'd loss, [grace ? 

And diminution of my honour's brightness. 
You bring some images of old times, Margaret, 
That should be now forgotten. 

Marg. Old times should never be forgotten, John. 
I came to talk about them with my friend. 

John. I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride. 

Marg. If John rejected Margaret in his pride, 
(As who does not, being splenetic, refuse 
Sometimes old play-fellows,) the spleen being gone, 
The offence no longer lives. 

Woodvil, those were happy days, 

When we two first began to love. When first, 
Under pretence of visiting my father, 
(Being then a stripling nigh upon my age,) 
You came a wooing to his daughter, John. 
Do you remember, 

With what a coy reserve and seldom speech, 
(Young maidens must be chary of their speech,) 

1 kept the honours of my maiden pride ? 
I was your favourite then. 

John. Margaret, Margaret ! 
These your submissions to my low estate, 
And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil, 
Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness. 
Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex, 
Whom miseries of mine could never alienate, 



A TRAGEDY. 



2«; 



Nor change of fortune shake ; whom injuries, 
And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved 
Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn, 
Then when you left in virtuous pride this house, 
Could not so separate, hut now in this 
My day of shame, when all the world forsake me, 
You only visit me, love, and forgive me. 

Marg. Dost yet rememher the green arbour, 
John, 
In the south gardens of my father's house, 
Where we have seen the summer sun go down, 
Exchanging true love's vows without restraint? 
And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness, 
And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it, 
There dwell 

" Like hermit poor 

" In pensive place obscure," 

And tell your Ave Maries by the curls 
(Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair ; 
And make confession seven times a day 
Of every thought that stray'd from love and 

Margaret ; 
And I your saint the penance should appoint — 
Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid 
Aside, like an old fashion. 

John. lady, poor and abject are my thoughts ; 
My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds, 
I have no part in any good man's love, 
In all earth's pleasures portion have I none, 
I fade and wither in my own esteem, 
This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am. 
I was not always thus. C Weeps. 

Marg. Thou noble nature, 
Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures, 
Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality, 
My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honour'd 

John ! 
Upon her knees (regard her poor request) 
Your favourite, once beloved Margaret, kneels. 

John. What would'st thou, lady, ever honour'd 
Margaret ? 

Marg. That John would think more nobly of 
himself, 
More worthily of high heaven ; 
And not for one misfortune, child of chance, 
No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish 
The less offence with image of the greater, 
Thereby to work the soul's humility, 
(Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,) 
not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy, 
Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come — 
John yet has many happy days to live ; 
To live and make atonement. 

John. Excellent lady, 
Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes, 



Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends, 
Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret \ 

Marg. {rising.) Go whither, John ? 

John. Go in with me, 
And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds ? 

Marg. That I will, John. 

[Exeunt, 



Scene — An inner Apartment. 



John is discovered kneeling. — Margaret standing over 
him. 
John (rises). I cannot bear 
To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty, 
('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,) 
In tending such a broken wretch as I am. 

Marg. John will break Margaret's heart if he 
speak so. 

sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy, 

And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold 
Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient, 
(You know you gave me leave to call you so,) 
And I must chide these pestilent humours from you. 

John. They are gone. — 
Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak ! 

1 can smile too, and I almost begin 

To understand what kind of creature Hope is. 

Marg. Now this is better, this mirth becomes 
you, John. 

John. Yet tell me, if I over-act my mirth 
(Being but a novice, I may fall into that error). 
That were a sad indecency, you know. 

Marg. Nay, never fear. 
I will be mistress of your humours, 
And you shall frown or smile by the book. 
And herein I shall be most peremptory, 
Cry, " This shows well, but that inclines to 

levity;" 
" This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it," 
" But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite." 

John. How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself ! 

Marg. To give you in your stead a better self ! 
Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld 
You mounted on your sprightly steed, White 

Margery, 
Sir Rowland my father's gift, 
And all my maidens gave my heart for lost. 
I was a young thing then, being newly come 
Home from my convent education, where 
Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France : 
Returning home true Protestant, you call'd me 
Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful 
Did John salute his love, being newly seen ! 
Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty, 
And praised it in a youth. 



30 



JOHN WOODVIL. 



John. Now Margaret weeps herself. 
(A noise of bells heard.) 

Marg. Hark the bells, John. 

John. Those are the church bells of St. Mary 
Ottery. 

Marg. I know it. 

John. St. Mary Ottery, my native village 
In the sweet shire of Devon. 
Those are the bells. 

Marg. Wilt go to church, John ? 

John. I have been there already. 

Marg. How canst say thou hast been there 
already ? The bells are only now ringing for 
morning service, and hast thou been at church 



John. I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep, 
And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is) 
From my chamber window, where I can see the 

sun rise ; 
And the first object I discern'd 
Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery. 

Marg. Well, John. 

John. Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath-day. 
Immediately a wish arose in my mind, 
To go to church and pray with Christian people. 
And then I check' d myself, and said to myself, 
" Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years 

past, 
(Not having been at church in all that time,) 
And is it fit, that now for the first time 
Thou should'st offend the eyes of Christian people 
With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer ? 
Thou would'st but discompose their pious thoughts, 



And do thyself no good : for how could'st thou 

pray, 
With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the 

offices?" 
And then I at my own presumption smiled ; 
And then I wept that I should smile at all, 
Having such cause of grief! I wept outright ; 
Tears like a river flooded all my face, 
And I began to pray, and found I could pray ; 
And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church. 
11 Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it." 
So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd 

detection, 
Or was about to act unlawful business 
At that dead time of dawn, 

I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open 
(Whether by negligence I knew not, 
Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed, 
For all things felt like mystery). 
Marg. Yes. 

John. So entering in, not without fear, 
I past into the family pew, 
And covering up my eyes for shame, 
And deep perception of unworthiness, 
Upon the little hassock knelt me down, 
Where I so oft had kneel'd, 
A docile infant by Sir Walter's side ; 
And, thinking so, I wept a second flood 
More poignant than the first ; 
But afterwards was greatly comforted. 
It seem'd, the guilt of blood was passing from me 
Even in the act and agony of tears, 
And all my sins forgiven. 



END OF JOHN WOODVIL. 



THE WITCH. 



31 



THE WITCH. 

A DRAMATIC SKETCH, OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 



CHARACTERS. 

Old Servant in the Family of Sir Francis Fairford. Stranger, 



Servant. One summer night Sir Francis, as it 
Was pacing to and fro in the avenue [chanced, 
That westward fronts our house, 
Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted 
Three hundred years ago, 
By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name. 
Being o'ertask'd in thought, he heeded not 
The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate, 
And begg'd an alms. 

Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate 
With angry chiding ; but I can never think 
(Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it) 
That he could use a woman, an old woman, 
With such discourtesy ; but he refused her — 
And better had he met a Hon in his path 
Than that old woman that night ; 
For she was one who practised the black arts, 
And served the devil, being since burnt for witch- 
craft. 
She look'd at him as one that meant to blast him, 
And with a frightful noise, 
('Twas partly like a woman's voice, 
And partly like the hissing of a snake,) 
She nothing said but this 
(Sir Francis told the words): — 

A mischief, mischief, mischief, 
And a nine-times hilling curse, 
By day and by night, to the caitiff wight, 

Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door, 
And shuts up the womb of his purse. 
And still she cried — 

A mischief, 
And a nine-fold withering curse : 
For that shall come to thee that will undo thee, 
Both all that thou fearest and worse. 



So saying she departed, 
Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath 
Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling ; 
So he described it. 

Stranger. A terrible curse ! What followed ? 

Servant. Nothing immediate, but some two 
months after 
Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick, 
And none could tell what ail'd him ; for he lay, 
And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off, 
And he that was full-flesh'd became as thin 
As a two-months' babe that has been starved in 

the nursing. 
And sure I think 

He bore his death-wound like a little child ; 
With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy 
He strove to clothe his agony in smiles, 
Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks, 
Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling 

there ; 
And when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid 
His hand upon his heart to show the place, 
Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said, 
And prick'd him with a pin. — 
And thereupon Sir Francis call'd to mind 
The beggar- witch that stood by the gateway 
And begg'd an alms. 

Stranger, But did the witch confess ? 

Servant. All this and more at her death. 

Stranger. I do not love to credit tales of magic. 
Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung, 
And this brave world 
(The mystery of God) unbeautified, 
Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are 
acted. 



32 



ALBUM VERSES. 



ALBUM VERSES 



WITH A FEW OTHERS. 



DEDICATION.— TO THE PUBLISHER. 



Dear Moxon, 

I do not know to whom a Dedication of these Trifles is more properly due than to yourself. You 
suggested the printing of them. You were desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the manner in which Publications, 
entrusted to your future care, would appear. With more propriety, perhaps, the " Christmas," or some other of 
your own simple, unpretending Compositions, might have served this purpose. But I forget — you have bid a long 
adieu to the Muses. I had on my hands sundry Copies of Verses written for Albums — 

Those Books kept by modern young Ladies for show, 
Of which their plain Grandmothers nothing did know — 

or otherwise floating about in Periodicals ; which you have chosen in this manner to embody. I feel little interest 
in their publication. They are simply — Advertisement Verses. 

It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the kindness of our honoured Friend, under whose auspices you 
are become a Publisher. May that fine-minded Veteran in Verse enjoy life long enough to see his patronage justified ! 
I venture to predict that your habits of industry, and your cheerful spirit, will carry you through the world. 

I am, Dear Moxon, your Friend and sincere Well- Wisher, 
Enfield, 1st June, 1830. CHARLES LAMB. 



AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT 
W . 

Had I a power, Lady, to my will, 
You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill 
Your leaves with Autographs — resplendent names 
Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames, 
Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should 

stand 
The hands of famous Lawyers— a grave band — 
Who in their Courts of Law or Equity 
Have best upheld Freedom and Property, 
These should moot cases in your book, and vie 
To show their reading and their Sergeantry. 
But I have none of these ; nor can I send 
The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd 
In her authentic hand ; nor in soft hours 
Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers. 
The lack of curious Signatures I moan, 
And want the courage to subscribe my own. 



TO DORA W , 

ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN 
HER ALBUM. 



An Album is a Banquet : from the store, 
In his intelligential Orchard growing, 
Your Sire might heap your board to overflowing ; 
One shaking of the Tree — 'twould ask no more 
To set a Salad forth, more rich than that 
Which Evelyn* in his princely cookery fancied : 
Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced, 
Where, a pleased guest, the Angelic Virtue sat. 
But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast, 
Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax, 
From his less wealthy neighbours he exacts ; 
Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast. 
Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am, 
A zealous, meek, contributory 

Lamb. 

* Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J. E. 1706. 



ALBUM VERSES. 



33 



IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S 
LADY. 

An Album is a Garden, not for show 

Planted, but use ; where wholesome herbs should 

grow. 
A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where 
No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare. 
A Chapel, where mere ornamental things 
Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings. 
A List of living friends ; a holier Room 
For names of some since mouldering in the tomb, 
Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive ; 
And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak, and live. 
Such, and so tender, should an Album be ; 
And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee. 



IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S— . 



In Christian world Mary the garland wears ! 
Rebecca sweetens on a Hebrew's ear ; 
Quakers for pure Priscilla are more clear ; 
And the light Gaul by amorous Ninon swears. 
Among the lesser lights how Lucy shines ! 
What air of fragrance Rosamond throws round ! 
How like a hymn doth sweet Cecilia sound ! 
Of Marthas, and of Abigails, few lines 
Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff 
Should homely Joan be fashion'd. But can 
You Barbara resist, or Marian ? 
And is not Clare for love excuse enough ? 
Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess, 
These all, than Saxon Edith, please me less. 



IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q-. 

A passing glance was all I caught of thee, 
In my own Enfield haunts at random roving. 
Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving ; 
Time short : and salutations cursory, 
Though deep, and hearty. The familiar Name 
Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me 
Thoughts—what the daughter of that Man should be, 
Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts 

did frame 
A growing Maiden, who, from day to day 
Advancing still in stature, and in grace, 
Would all her lonely Father's griefs efface, 
And his paternal cares with usury pay. 
I still retain the Phantom, as I can ; 
And call the gentle image — Quillinan. 



THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY. 



Canadia ! boast no more the toils 
Of hunters for the furry spoils ; 
Your whitest ermines are but foils 
To brighter Catherine Orkney. 

That such a flower should ever burst 
From climes with rigorous winter curst !- 
We bless you, that so kindly nurst 

This flower, this Catherine Orkney. 

We envy not your proud display 
Of lake — wood — vast Niagara : 
Your greatest pride we've borne away. 
How spared you Catherine Orkney ! 

That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell, 
To your reproach no more we tell : 
Canadia, you repaid us well 

With rearing Catherine Orkney. 

Britain, guard with tenderest care 
The charge allotted to your share : 
You've scarce a native maid so fair, 
So good, as Catherine Orkney. 



THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON. 



Little Book, sumamed of white. 
Clean as yet, and fair to sight, 
Keep thy attribution right.. 

Never disproportion' d scrawl ; 
Ugly blot, that's worse than all ; 
On thy maiden clearness fall ! 

In each letter, here design'd, 
Let the reader emblem'd find 
Neatness of the owner's mind. 

Gilded margins count a sin, 
Let thy leaves attraction win 
By the golden rules within ; 

Sayings fetch'd from sages old ; 
Laws which Holy Writ unfold, 
Worthy to be graved in gold : 

Lighter fancies not excluding ; 
Blameless wit, with nothing rude in, 
Sometimes mildly interluding 



34 ALBUM 


VERSES. 


Amid strains of graver measure : 
Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure 
In sweet Muses' groves of leisure. 

Riddles dark, perplexing sense ; 

Darker meanings of offence ; 

What but shades — be banish'd hence. 

Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, 
Candid meanings, best express 
Mind of quiet Quakeress. 


ii. 
But stop, rash verse ! and don't abuse 
A bashful Maiden's ear with news 
Of her own virtues. She'll refuse 

Praise sung so loudly. 
Of that same goodness you admire, 
The best part is, she don't aspire 
To praise — nor of herself desire 

To think too proudly. 

IN MY OWN ALBUM. 

Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, 

A young probationer of light, 

Thou wert, my soul, an album bright. — 

A spotless leaf ; but thought and care, 

And friend and foe, in foul or fair, 

Have " written strange defeatures " there ; 

And Time with heaviest hand of all, 
Like that fierce writing on the wall, 
Hath stamp'd sad dates — he can't recall ; 

Anderror, gilding worst designs — 

Like speckled snake that strays and shines — 

Betrays his path by crooked lines ; 

And vice hath left his ugly blot ; 
And good resolves, a moment hot, 
Fairly began — but finish'd not ; 

And fruitless late remorse doth trace — 
Like Hebrew lore, a backward pace — 
Her irrecoverable race. 

Disjointed numbers ; sense unknit ; 
Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit ; 
Compose the mingled mass of it. 

My scalded eyes no longer brook 
Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look — 
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book. 


IN 

THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS. 

Lady unknown, who cravest from me Unknown 
The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace, 
How shall I find fit matter ? with what face 
Address a face that ne'er to me was shown ? 
Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not, 
Conjecturing, I wander in the dark. 
I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke ! 
But at that name my cold muse waxes hot, 
And swears that thou art such a one as he, 
Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness, 
Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness 
From frank heart without guile. And, if thou be 
The pure reverse of this, and I mistake — 
Demure one, I will like thee for his sake. 

TN THE ALBUM OF MTSS 


i. 

Such goodness in your face doth shine, 
With modest look, without design, 
That I despair, poor pen of mine 

Can e'er express it. 
To give it words I feebly try ; 
My spirits fail me to supply 
Befitting language for 't, and I 

Can only bless it ! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



35 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



ANGEL HELP* 

This rare tablet doth include 

Poverty with Sanctitude. 

Past midnight this poor maid hath spun, 

And yet the work is not half done, 

Which must supply from earnings scant 

A feeble bed-rid parent's want. 

Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask, 

And Holy hands take up the task ; 

Unseen the rock and spindle ply, 

And do her earthly drudgery. 

Sleep, saintly poor one ! sleep, sleep on ; 

And, waking, find thy labours done. 

Perchance she knows it by her dreams ; 

Her eye hath caught the golden gleams, 

Angelic presence testifying, 

That round her everywhere are flying ; 

Ostents from which she may presume, 

That much of heaven is in the room. 

Skirting her own bright hair they run, 

And to the sunny add more sun : 

Now on that aged face they fix, 

Streaming from the Crucifix ; 

The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing, 

Death-disarming sleeps infusing, 

Prelibations, foretastes high, 

And equal thoughts to live or die. 

Gardener bright from Eden's bower, 

Tend with care that lily flower ; 

To its leaves and root infuse 

Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews. 

'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge, 

Of a crowning privilege. 

Careful as that lily flower, 

Thi3 maid must keep her precious dower ; 

Live a sainted Maid, or die 

Martyr to virginity. 

* Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles 
Aders, Esq., in which is represented the legend of a poor 
female Saint ; who, having spun past midnight, to maintain 
a bed-rid mother, has fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels 
are finishing her work. In another part of the chamber an 
angel is tending a lily, the emblem of purity. 



AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN. 

I saw where in the shroud did lurk 

A curious frame of Nature's work. 

A flow'ret crushed in the bud, 

A nameless piece of Babyhood, 

Was in her cradle-coffin lying ; 

Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying : 

So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb 

For darker closets of the tomb ! 

She did but ope an eye, and put 

A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 

For the long dark : ne'er more to see 

Through glasses of mortality. 

Riddle of destiny, who can show 

What thy short visit meant, or know 

What thy errand here below ? 

Shall we say, that Nature blind 

Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, 

Just when she had exactly wrought 

A finish 'd pattern without fault ? 

Could she flag, or could she tire, 

Or lack'd she the Promethean fire 

(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) 

That should thy little limbs have quicken' d ? 

Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure 

Life of health, and days mature : 

Woman's self in miniature ! 

Limbs so fair, they might supply 

(Themselves now but cold imagery) 

The sculptor to make Beauty by. 

Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry, 

That babe, or mother, one must die ; 

So in mercy left the stock, 

And cut the branch ; to save the shock 

Of young years widow'd ; and the pain, 

When Single State comes back again 

To the lone man who, 'reft of wife, 

Thenceforward drags a maimed life ? 

The economy of Heaven is dark ; 

And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, 

Why Human Buds, like this, should fall, 

More brief than fly ephemeral, 



36 MISCELLANEOUS. 


That has his day ; while shrivell'd crones 


" I have in part redeem'd the pledge 


Stiffen with age to stocks and stones ; 


Of my Baptismal privilege ; 


And crabbed use the conscience sears 


And more and more will strive to flee 


In sinners of an hundred years. 


AH which my Sponsors kind did then renounce 


Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, 


for me." 


Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss. 
Rites, which custom does impose, 






Silver bells and baby clothes ; 




Coral, redder than those lips 


THE YOUNG CATECHIST*. 


Which pale death did late eclipse ; 





Music framed for infants' glee, 


While this tawny Ethiop prayeth, 


Whistle never tuned for thee ; 


Painter, who is she that stayeth 


Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, 


By, with skin of whitest lustre, 


Loving hearts were they which gave them. 


Sunny locks, a shining cluster, 


Let not one be missing ; nurse, 


Saint-like seeming to direct him 


See them laid upon the hearse 


To the Power that must protect him ? 


Of infant slain by doom perverse. 


Is she of the Heaven-born Three, 


Why should kings and nobles have 


Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity; 


Pictured trophies to their grave ; 


Or some Cherub ? — 


And we, churls, to thee deny 


They you mention 


Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, 


Far transcend my weak invention. 


A more harmless vanity 1 


'Tis a simple Christian child, 




Missionary young and mild, 




From her stock of Scriptural knowledge, 
Bible-taught without a college, 






Which by reading she could gather, 


THE CHRISTENING. 


Teaches him to say Our Father 


. 


To the common Parent, who 


Array'd — a half -angelic sight — 


Colour not respects, nor hue. 


In vests of pure Baptismal white, 


White and black in him have part, 


The Mother to the Font doth bring 


Who looks not to the skin, but heart. 


The little helpless nameless thing,' 




With hushes soft and mild caressing, 






At once to get — a name and blessing. 




Close by the babe the Priest doth stand. 


SHE IS GOING. 


The Cleansing Water at his hand, 




Which must assoil the soul within 


For their elder Sister's hair 


From every stain of Adam's sin. ^ 


Martha does a wreath prepare 


The Infant eyes the mystic scenes, 


Of bridal rose, ornate and gay : 


Nor knows what all this wonder means ; 


To-morrow is the wedding day. 


And now he smiles, as if to say 


She is going. 


" I am a Christian made this day ;" 




Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold, 


Mary, youngest of the three, 


Shrinking from the water cold, 


Laughing idler, full of glee, 


Whose virtues, rightly understood, 


Arm in arm does fondly chain her, 


Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. 


Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her — 


Strange words— The World, The Flesh, The 


But she's going. 


Devil- 




Poor Babe, what can it know of Evil ? 


Vex not, maidens, nor regret 


But we must silently adore 


Thus to part with Margaret. 


Mysterious truths, and not explore. 


Charms like yours can never stay 


Enough for him in after-times, 


Long within doors ; and one day 


When he shall read these artless rhymes, 
If, looking back upon this day 


You'll be going. 


* A Picture by Henry Meyer, Esq. 


With quiet conscience, he can say — 


-.1 



SONNETS. 



37 



TO A YOUNG FRIEND, 

ON HER TWENTY -FIRST BIRTH-DAY. 

Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray 

A blessing on thy years, young Isola ; 

Young, but no more a child. How swift have 

To me thy girlish times, a woman grown [flown 

Beneath my heedless eyes ! in vain I rack 

My fancy to believe the almanac, 

That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou shouldst 

have still 
Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign will 
Gambol'd about our house, as in times past. 
Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast, 
Hastening to leave thy friends ! — for which intent, 
Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment: 
After some thirty years, spent in such bliss 
As this earth can afford, where still we miss 



Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old 

As we whom thou hast left ! That wish was cold. 

far more aged and wrinkled, till folks say, 

Looking upon thee reverend in decay, 

" This Dame, for length of days and virtues rare, 

With her respected Grandsire may compare." 

Grandchild of that respected Isola, 

Thou shouldst have had about thee on this day 

Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate 

Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate ; 

But they have died, and left thee to advance 

Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance 

The friends which nature grudged. And thou wilt 

find, 
Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind 
To thee and thy deservings. That last strain 
Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again 
Another cheerful goblet, while I say 
" Health, and twice health to our lost Isola." 



SONNETS, 



HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS. 

By Enfield lanes, and Winchmore's verdant hill, 
Two lovely damsels cheer my lonely walk : 
The fair Maria, as a vestal, still ; 
And Emma brown, exuberant in talk. 
With soft and Lady speech the first applies 
The mild correctives that to grace belong 
To her redundant friend, who her defies 
With jest, and mad discourse, and bursts of song. 
differing Pair, yet sweetly thus agreeing, 
What music from your happy discord rises, 
While your companion hearing each, and seeing, 
Nor this, nor that, but both together, prizes ; 
This lesson teaching, which our souls may strike, 
That harmonies may be in things unlike ! 



WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE. 

I was not train'd in Academic bowers, 

And to those learned streams I nothing owe 

Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow ; 

Mine have been anything but studious hours. 

Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers, 

Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap ; 

My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap, 



And I walk gowned ; feel unusual powers. 
Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech, 
Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain ; 
And my skull teems with notions infinite. 
Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach 
Truths, which transcend the searching Schoolmen's 

vein, 
And half had stagger'd that stout Stagirite ! 



TO 

A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER 
IN THE "BLIND BOY." 

Rare artist ! who with half thy tools, or none, 
Canst execute with ease thy curious art, 
And press thy powerful'st meanings on the heart, 
Unaided by the eye, expression's throne ! 
While each blind sense, intelligential grown 
Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight : 
Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might, 
All motionless and silent seem to moan 
The unseemly negligence of nature's hand, 
That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine, 
mistress of the passions ; artist fine ! 
Who dost our souls against our sense command, 
Plucking the horror from a sightless face, 
Lending to blank deformity a grace. 



38 



SONNETS. 



WORK. 

Who first invented work, and bound the free 
And holy day-rejoicing spirit down 
To the ever-haunting importunity 
Of business in the green fields, and the town — 
To plough, loom, anvil, spade— and oh ! most sad, 
To that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood ? 
Who but the Being unblest, alien from good, 
Sabbathless Satan ! he who his unglad 
Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings, 
That round and round incalculably reel — 
For wrath divine hath made him like a wheel — 
In that red realm from which are no returnings : 
Where toiling, and turmoiling, ever and aye 
He, and his thoughts, keep pensive working-day. 



LEISURE. 

They talk of time, and of time's galling yoke, 
That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press, 
Which only works and business can redress : 
Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke, 
Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke. 
But might I, fed with silent meditation, 
Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation — 
Improbus Labor, which my spirits hath broke — 
I'd drink of time's rich cup, and never surfeit : 
Fling in more days than went to make the gem 
That crovvn'd the white top of Methusalem : 
Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit, 
Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky, 
The heaven-sweet burthen of eternity. 



DEUS NOBIS H.EC OTIA FECIT. 



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 

Rogers, of all the men that I have known 

But slightly, who have died, your Brother's loss 

Touch 'd me most sensibly. There came across 

My mind an image of the cordial tone 

Of your fraternal meetings, where a guest 

I more than once have sat ; and grieve to think, 

That of that threefold cord one precious link 

By Death's rude hand is sever 'd from the rest. 

Of our old gentry he appear'd a stem — 

A Magistrate who, while the evil-doer 

He kept in terror, could respect the Poor, 

And not for every trifle harass them, 

As some, divine and laic, too oft do. 

This man 's a private loss, and public too. 



THE GIPSY'S MALISON. 

"Suck, baby, suck ! mother's love grows by giving ; 
Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting : 
Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living 
Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. 

Kiss, baby, kiss ! mother's lips shine by kisses ; 
Choke the warm breath that else would fall in 
blessings : [blisses 

Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty 
Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings. 

Hang, baby, hang ! mother's love loves such forces, 
Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging : 
Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses 
Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging." 

So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical, 

And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical. 



COMMENDATORY VERSES. 



39 



COMMENDATORY VERSES, &c. 



TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS, 

PUBLISHED UNDER THE NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL. 



Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask 
Under the vizor of a horrow'd name ; 
Let things eschew the light deserving blame : 
No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task. 
" Marcian Colonna" is a dainty book ; 
And thy " Sicilian Tale" may boldly pass ; 
Thy " Dream" 'bove all, in which, as in a glass, 
On the great world's antique glories we may look. 
No longer then, as " lowly substitute, 
Factor, or Proctor, for another's gains," 
Suffer the admiring world to be deceived ; 
Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved, 
Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains, 
And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute. 



TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ. 

ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS. 

Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then 
Esteemed you a perfect specimen 
Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends, 
To teach us colder English how a friend's 
Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and 

plain, 
Strong-sensed, rough-witted, above fear or gain ; 
But nothing further had the gift to espy. 
Sudden you re-appear. With wonder I 
Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a 
Only to his inferior in the clean [scene 

Passes of pathos : with such fence-like art — 
Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart. 
Almost without the aid language affords, 
Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, 

words, 
(Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway 
Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play 
We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws 
Our tears on credit : and we find the cause 



Some two hours after, spelling o'er again 

Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the 

pain. 
Proceed, old friend ; and, as the year returns, 
Still snatch some new old story from the urns 
Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before 
Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE « EVERY-DAY 
BOOK." 

I like you, and your book, ingenuous Hone ! 

In whose capacious all-embracing leaves 
The very marrow of tradition 's shown ; 

And all that history — much that fiction — weaves. 

By every sort of taste your work is graced. 

Vast stores of modern anecdote we find, 
With good old story quaintly interlaced — 

The theme as various as the readers' mind. 

Rome's lie-fraught legends you so truly paint — 
Yet kindly, — that the half-turn'd Catholic 

Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint, 
And cannot curse the candid heretic. 

Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your 
page; 

Our fathers' mummeries we well pleased behold 
And, proudly conscious of a purer age, 

Forgive some fopperies in the times of old. 

Verse-honouring Phoebus, Father of bright Days, 
Must needs bestow on you both good and many, 

Who, building trophies of his Children's praise, 
Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any. 

Dan Phcebus loves your book — trust me, friend 
Hone — 

The title only errs, he bids me say : 
For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown, 

He swears, 'tis not a work of every day". 



40 



COMMENDATORY VERSES, &c. 



TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ. 

ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE POEMS OF MR. ROGERS. 



Consummate Artist, whose undying name 

With classic Rogers shall go down to fame, 

Be this thy crowning work ! In my young days 

How often have I, with a child's fond gaze, 

Pored on the pictured wonders* thou hadst done: 

Clarissa mournful, and prim Grandison ! 

All Fielding's, Smollett's heroes, rose to view ; 

I saw, and I believed the phantoms true. 

But, above all, that most romantic tale + 

Did o'er my raw credulity prevail, 

Where Glums and Gawries wear mysterious things, 

That serve at once for jackets and for wings. 

Age, that enfeebles other men's designs, 

But heightens thine, and thy free draught refines. 

In several ways distinct you make us feel — 

Graceful as Raphael, as Watteau genteel. 

Your lights and shades, as Titianesque, we praise ; 

And warmly wish you Titian's length of days. 



TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. 



What makes a happy wedlock ? What has fate 
Not given to thee in thy well-chosen mate ? 
Good sense — good humour; — these are trivial 
things, 

Dear M- , that each trite encomiast sings. 

But she hath these, and more. A mind exempt 

From every low-bred passion, where contempt, 

Nor envy, nor detraction, ever found 

A harbour yet ; an understanding sound ; 

Just views of right and wrong ; perception full 

Of the deform'd, and of the beautiful, 

In life and manners ; wit above her sex, 

Which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks ; 

Exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth, 

To gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth ; 

A noble nature, conqueror in the strife 

Of conflict with a hard discouraging life, 

Strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power 

Of those whose days have been one silken hour, 

Spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring ; a keen sense 

Alike of benefit, and of offence, 

With reconcilement quick, that instant springs 

From the charged heart with nimble angel wings ; 

While grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd 

By a strong hand, seem burn'd into her mind. 

* Illustrations of the British Novelists. 
f Peter Wilkins. 



If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer 
Richer than land, thou hast them all in her ; 
And beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon, 
Is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown. 



THE SELF-ENCHANTED. 

I had a sense in dreams of a beauty rare, 
Whom Fate had spell-bound, and rooted there, 
Stooping, like some enchanted theme, 
Over the marge of that crystal stream, 
Where the blooming Greek, to Echo blind, 
With Self-love fond, had to waters pined, 
Ages had waked, and ages slept, 
And that bending posture still she kept : 
For her eyes she may not turn away, 

'Till a fairer object shall pass that way 

Till an image more beauteous this world can show, 
Than her own which she sees in the mirror below. 
Pore on, fair Creature ! for ever pore, 
Nor dream to be disenchanted more : 
For vain is expectance, and wish in vain, 
Till a new Narcissus can come again. 



[In a leaf of a quarto edition of the " Lives of the Saints, 
written in Spanish by the learned and reverend father, 
Alfonso Villegas, Divine, of the Order of St. Dominick, set 
forth in English by John Heigham, Anno 1630," bought at 
a Catholic book-shop in Duke-street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
I found, carefully inserted, a painted flower, seemingly co- 
eval with the book itself ; and did not, for some time, 
discover that it opened in the middle, and was the cover 
to a very humble draught of a St. Anne, with the Virgin 
and Child ; doubtless the' performance of some poor but 
pious Catholic, whose meditations it assisted.] 



lift with reverent hand that tarnish'd flower, 
That shrines beneath her modest canopy 
Memorials dear to Romish piety ; 
Dim specks, rude shapes, of Saints ! in fervent 

hour 
The work perchance of some meek devotee, 
Who, poor in worldly treasures to set forth 
The sanctities she worshipp'd to their worth, 
In this imperfect tracery might see 
Hints, that all Heaven did to her sense reveal. 
Cheap gifts best fit poor givers. We are told 
Of the lone mite, the cup of water cold, 
That in their way approved the offerer's zeal. 
True love shows costliest, where the means are 

scant ; 
And, in their reckoning, they abound, who want. 



TRANSLATIONS." 



41 



TO LOUISA M , 

WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY.' 

Louisa, serious grown and mild, 
I knew you once a romping child, 
Obstreperous much and very wild. 
Then you would clamber up my knees, 
And strive with every art to tease, 
When every art of yours could please. 



Those things would scarce be proper now, 
But they are gone, I know not how, 
And woman 's written on your brow. 
Time draws his finger o'er the scene ; 
But I cannot forget between 
The Thing to me you once have been ; 
Each sportive sally, wild escape, — 
The scoff, the banter, and the jape, — 
And antics of my gamesome Ape. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE. 



THE BALLAD SINGERS. 



Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column * draw, 
Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw ; 
Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace, 
And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race : 
With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red, 
But long with dust and dirt discoloured 
Belies its hue ; in mud behind, before, 
From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er. 
One a small infant at the breast does bear ; 
And one in her right hand her tuneful ware, 
Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken, 
When youths and maids flock round. His stall 

forsaken, 
Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt, 
Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt 
To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons 
Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns 
Cherish'd the gift of Song, which sorrow quells ; 
And, working single in their low-rooft cells, 
Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night 
With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight. — 
Who now hath caught the alarm ? the Servant Maid 
Hath heard a buzz at distance ; and, afraid 
To miss a note, with elbows red comes out. 
Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout 
Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. He stands by, 
Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply 
With stooping shoulders. What cares he ? he sees 
The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees, 
But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song. 
So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong 

* Seven Dials. 



Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings, 
The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings, 
And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load. 
Hither and thither from the sevenfold road 
Some cart or waggon crosses, which divides 
The close-wedged audience ; but, as when the tides 
To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past, 
They re-unite, so these unite as fast. 
The older Songstress hitherto hath spent 
Her elocution in the argument 
Of their great Song in prose ; to wit, the woes 
Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes — 
Ah! "Wandering He 1" — which now in loftier 

verse 
Pathetic they alternately rehearse. 
All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes 
His right ear to the strain. The other hopes 
To catch it better with his left. Long trade 
It were to tell, how the deluded Maid 
A victim fell. And now right greedily 
All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy, 
That are so tragical ; which She, and She, 
Deals out, and sings the while ; nor can there be 
A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back 
His contribution from the gentle rack 
Of Music's pleasing torture. Irus' self, 
The staff-propt Beggar, his thin-gotten pelf 
Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest, 
And boldly claims his ballad with the best. 
An old Dame only lingers. To her purse 
The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse, 
" Give me," she cries. " I'll paste it on my wall, 
While the wall lasts, to show what ills befall 
Fond hearts, seduced from Innocency's way ; 
How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray." 



42 



TRANSLATIONS. 



ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN 
INFANT SLEEPING. 

Beautiful Infant, who dost keep 
Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep, 
May the repose unbroken be, 
Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee, 
While thou enjoy 'st along with it 
That which no art, or craft, could ever hit, 
Or counterfeit to mortal sense, 
The heaven-infused sleep of Innocence ! 

III. 
TO DAVID COOK, 

OF THE PARISH OF SAINT MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER, 
WATCHMAN. 

For much good-natured verse received from thee, 
A loving verse take in return from me. 
" Good morrow to my masters," is your cry ; 
And to our David " twice as good," say I. 
Not Peter's monitor, shrill Chanticleer, 
Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear, 
Or tells the hours more faithfully. While night 
Fills half the world with shadows of affright, 
You with your lantern, partner of your round, 
Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallow'd bound. 
The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up, 
The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup, 
Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appal ; 
Arm'd with thy faithful staff, thou slight'st them all. 
But if the market gard'ner chance to pass, 
Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass, 
The gentle salesman you with candour greet, 
And with reit'rated " good mornings" meet. 
Announcing your approach by formal bell, 
Of nightly weather you the changes tell ; 
Whether the Moon shines, or her head doth steep 
In rain-portending clouds. When mortals sleep 
In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet 
Of winter ; and in alley, or in street, 
Relieve your midnight progress with a verse. 
What though fastidious Phoebus frown averse 
On your didactic strain — indulgent Night 
With caution hath seal'd up both ears of Spite, 
And critics sleep while you in staves do sound 
The praise of long-dead Saints, whose days abound 
In wintry months ; but Crispin chief proclaim : 
Who stirs not at that Prince of Cobblers' name ? 
Profuse in loyalty some couplets shine, 
And wish long days to all the Brunswick line ! 
To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read ; 
Teach wives and husbands how their lives to lead j 
Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice j 
How death at last all ranks doth equalise ; 



And, in conclusion, pray good years befall, 
With store of wealth, your " worthy masters all." 
For this and other tokens of good will, 
On boxing-day may store of shillings fill 
Your Christmas purse ; no householder give less, 
When at each door your blameless suit you press : 
And what you wish to us (it is but reason) 
Receive in turn — the compliments o' th' season ! 

IV. 

EPITAPH ON A DOG. 



Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie, 

That wont to tend my old blind master's steps, 

His guide and guard ; nor, while my service lasted, 

Had he occasion for that staff, with which 

He now goes picking out his path in fear 

Over the highways and crossings, but would plant 

Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, 

A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd 

His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide 

Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd : 

To whom with loud and passionate laments 

From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd. 

Nor wail'd to all in vain : some here and there, 

The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave. 

I meantime at his feet obsequious slept ; 

Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear 

Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive 

At his kind hand my customary crumbs, 

And common portion in his feast of scraps ; 

Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and 

With our long day and tedious beggary. [spent 

These were my manners, this my way of life, 

Till age and slow disease me overtook, 

And sever' d from my sightless master's side. 

But lest the grace of so good deeds should die, 

Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost, 

This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd, 

Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand, 

And with short verse inscribed it, to attest, 

In long and lasting union to attest, 

The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog. 

V. 
THE RIVAL BELLS. 

A tuneful challenge rings from either side 

Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, Saint 

Bride, 
Peal swift and shrill ; to which more slow reply 
The deep -toned eight of Mary Overy. 
Such harmony from the contention flows, 
That the divided ear no preference knows ; 
Betwixt them both disparting Music's State, 
While one exceeds in number, one in weight. 



TRANSLATIONS, &c. 



43 



VI. 
NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA. 

Great Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt, 
Owed to School Mistress sage his Alphabet ; 
But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown, 
Discover'd properties to her unknown ; 
Of A plus B, or nanus, learn'd the use, 
Known Quantities from unknown to educe ; 
And made — no doubt to that old dame's surprise — 
The Christ-Cross-Row his Ladder to the skies. 
Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say, 
Her Lessons were his true Principia ! 

VII. 
THE HOUSEKEEPER. 

The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose, 
Carries his house with him, where'er he goes ; 
Peeps out — and if there comes a shower of rain, 
Retreats to his small domicile amain. 
Touch but a tip of him, a horn — 'tis well — 
He curls up in his sanctuary shell. 
He's his own landlord, his own tenant ; stay 
Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. 
Himself he boards and lodges ; both invites, 
And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights. 
He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure 
Chattels ; himself is his own furniture, 
And his sole riches, Wheresoe'er he roam — 
Knock when you will — he's sure to be at home. 

VIIL 
THE FEMALE ORATORS. 

Nigh London's famous Bridge a Gate more famed, 
Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named, 
So judged Antiquity ; and therein wrongs 
A name, allusive strictly to two Tongues*. 
Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes, 
And gratis deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes. 
With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes, 
Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes. 
One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds, 
And one in literalities abounds ; 
In mood and figure these keep up the din. 
Words multiply, and every word tells in. 
Her hundred throats here bawling Slander strains ; 
And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins 
In terms, which Demosthenic force outgo, 
And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero. 
Right in the midst great Ate keeps her stand, 
And from her sovereign station taints the land. 
Hence Pulpits rail ; grave Senates learn to jar ; 
Quacks scold ; and Billinsgate infects the Bar. 



* Bilinguis in the Latin. 



IX. 

ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST*. 

And hath thy blameless life become 

A prey to the devouring tomb ? 

A more mute silence hast thou known, 

A deafness deeper than thine own, 

While time was ? and no friendly Muse, 

That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues, 

Repair with quickening verse the breach, 

And write thee into light and speech ? 

The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd 

Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd ; 

Who made the Hearing, without wrong 

Did rescue thine from Siren's song. 

He let thee see the ways of men, 

Which thou with pencil, not with pen, 

Careful Beholder, down didst note, 

And all their motley actions quote, 

Thyself unstain'd the while. From look 

Or gesture reading, more than book, 

In letter'd pride thou took'st no part, 

Contented with the Silent Art, 

Thyself as silent. Might I be 

As speechless, deaf, and good, as He ! 



PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL. 



Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe, 

That sang the Pillory, 

In loftier strains to show 

A more sublime Machine 

Than that, where thou wert seen, 

With neck out-stretcht and shoulders ill awry, 

Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below- 

A most unseemly show ! 

n. 
In such a place 
Who could expose thy face, 
Historiographer of deathless Crusoe ! 
That paint 'st the strife 
And all the naked ills of savage life, 
Far above Rousseau ? 
Rather myself had stood 
In that ignoble wood, 
Bare to the mob, on holyday or high day. 
If nought else could atone 
For waggish libel, 
I swear on Bible, 

I would have spared him for thy sake alone, 
Man Friday ! 

* Benjamin Ferrers— Died A. D. 1732. 



44 ODE.— EPICEDIUM. 




But walk men into virtue ; betwixt crime 


in. 
Our ancestors' were sour days, 


And slow repentance giving breathing time 


Great Master of Romance ! 


And leisure to be good ; 


A milder doom had fallen to thy chance 


Instructing with discretion demi-reps 


In our days : 


How to direct their steps. 


Thy sole assignment 


VII. 


Some solitary confinement, 


Thou best Philosopher made out of wood ! 


(Not worth thy care a carrot,) 


Not that which framed the tub, 


Where in world-hidden cell 


Where sate the Cynic cub, 


Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well, 


With nothing in his bosom sympathetic ; 


Only without the parrot ; 


But from those groves derived, I deem, 


By sure experience taught to know, 


Where Plato nursed his dream 


Whether the qualms thou makest him feel were 


Of immortality ; 


truly such or no. 


Seeing that clearly 


IV. 


Thy system all is merely 


But stay ! methinks in statelier measure — 


Peripatetic. 


A more companionable pleasure — 


Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give 


I see thy steps the mighty Tread-Mill trace, 


Of how to live 


(The subject of my song, 


With temperance, sobriety, morality, 


Delay'd however long,) 


(A new art,) 


And some of thine own race, 


That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds, 


To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee 


Each Tyro now proceeds 


There with thee go, [along. 


A " Walking Stewart ! " 


Link'd in like sentence, 




With regulated pace and footing slow, 


• 


Each old acquaintance, 




Rogue — harlot — thief— that live to future ages ; 


GOING OR GONE. 


Through many a labour' d tome, 





Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages. 
Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home ! 


i. 
Fine merry franions, 
Wanton companions, 


Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack, 


From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack. 


My days are even banyans 


Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags ; 

Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags, 

There points to Amy, treading equal chimes, 


With thinking upon ye ! 


How Death, that last stinger, 
Finis-writer, end-bringer, 


The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes. 


Has laid his chill finger, 


v. 


Or is laying on ye. 


Incompetent my song to raise 


n. 


To its just height thy praise, 


There's rich Kitty Wheatley, 


Great Mill ! 


With footing it featly 


That by thy motion proper 


That took me completely, 


(No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill), 


She sleeps in the Kirk House ; 


Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will, 


And poor Polly Perkin, 


Turn'st out men's consciences, 


Whose Dad was still firking 


That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet 


The jolly ale firkin, 


As flour from purest wheat, 


She's gone to the Work-house ; 


Into thy hopper. 


in. 


All reformation short of thee but nonsense is, 


Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter 


Or human, or divine. 


(In ten counties no smarter) 


VI. 


Has ta'en his departure 


Compared with thee, 


For Proserpine's orchards J 


What are the labours of that Jumping Sect, 


And Lily, postilion, 


Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect? 


With cheeks of vermilion, 


Thou dost not bump, 


Is one of a million 


Or jump, 


That fill up the church-yards ; 



EPICEDIUM.— FREE THOUGHTS. 



45 



And, lusty as Dido, 
Fat Clemitson's widow 
Flits now a small shadow 

By Stygian hid ford ; 
And good Master Clapton 
Has thirty years napt on 
The ground he last hapt on, 

Intomb'd by fair Widford ; 

v. 
And gallant Tom Dockwra, 
Of Nature's finest crockery, 
Now but thin air and mockery, 

Lurks by Avernus, 
Whose honest grasp of hand 
Still, while his life did stand, 
At friend's or foe's command, 

Almost did burn us. 

VI. 

Roger de Coverley 

Not more good man than he ; 

Yet has he equally 

Push'd for Cocytus, 
With drivelling Worral, 
And wicked old Dorrell, 
'Gainst whom I've a quarrel, 

Whose end might affright us !- 

vir. 
Kindly hearts have I known ; 
Kindly hearts they are flown ; 
Here and there if but one 

Linger yet uneffaced, 
Imbecile tottering elves, 
Soon to be wreck'd on shelves, 
These scarce are half themselves, 

With age and care crazed. 

VIII. 

But this day Fanny Hutton 
Her last dress has put on ; 
Her fine lessons forgotten, 

She died, as the dunce died ; 
And prim Betsy Chambers, 
Decay'd in her members, 
No longer remembers 

Things, as she once did ; 

IX. 

And prudent Miss Wither 
Not in jest now doth wither, 
And soon must go — whither 



Nor I well, nor you know ; 
And flaunting Miss Waller, 
That soon must befall her, 
Whence none can recall her, 

Though proud once as Juno ! 



FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT 
COMPOSERS. 

Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart, 

Just as the whim bites ; for my part, 

I do not care a farthing candle 

For either of them, or for Handel. — 

Cannot a man live free and easy, 

Without admiring Pergolesi ? 

Or through the world with comfort go, 

That never heard of Doctor Blow ? 

So help me heaven, I hardly have ; 

And yet I eat, and drink, and shave, 

Like other people, if you watch it, 

And know no more of stave or crotchet, 

Than did the primitive Peruvians ; 

Or those old ante-queer-diluvians 

That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal, 

Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal 

By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at, 

Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut. 

I care no more for Cimarosa, 

Than he did for Salvator Rosa, 

Being no painter ; and bad luck 

Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck ! 

Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel, 

Had something in them ; but .who's Purcel ? 

The devil, with his foot so cloven, 

For aught I care, may take Beethoven ; 

And, if the bargain does not suit, 

I'll throw him Weber in to boot. 

There's not the splitting of a splinter 

To choose 'twixt him last named, and Winter. 

Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido 

Knew just as much, God knows, as I do. 

I would not go four miles to visit 

Sebastian Bach ; (or Batch, which is it ?) 

No more I would for Bononcini. 

As for Novello, or Rossini, 

I shall not say a word to grieve 'em, 

Because they're living ; so I leave 'em. 



46 



THE WIFE'S TRIAL; 



THE WIFE'S TKTAL; 

OR, 

THE INTRUDING WIDOW. 
& Mtamatic loem. 

FOUNDED ON MR. CRABBE'S TALE OF " THE CONFIDANT." 



CHARACTERS. 



Mr. Selby, 
Katherine, 



A Wiltshire Gentleman. 
Wife to Selby. 



Lucy, Sister to Selby. 
Mrs. Frampton, A Widow. 



Servants. 
Scene — at Mr. Selby's House, or in the grounds adjacent. 



Scene— A Library. 

Mr. Selby. Katherine. 

Selby. Do not too far mistake me, gentlest wife ', 
I meant to chide your virtues, not yourself, 
And those too with allowance. I have not 
Been blest by thy fair side with five white years 
Of smooth and even wedlock, now to touch 
With any strain of harshness on a string 
Hath yielded me such music. 'Twas the quality 
Of a too grateful nature in my Katherine, 
That to the lame performance of some vows, 
And common courtesies of man to wife, 
Attributing too much, hath sometimes seem'd 
To esteem as favours, what in that blest union 
Are but reciprocal and trivial dues, 
As fairly yours as mine : 'twas this I thought 
Gently to reprehend. 

Kath. In friendship's barter 

The riches we exchange should hold some level, 
And corresponding worth. Jewels for toys 
Demand some thanks thrown in. You took me, sir, 
To that blest haven of my peace, your bosom, 
An orphan founder'd in the world's black storm. 
Poor, you have made me rich ; from lonely maiden, 
Your cherish'd and your full-accompanied wife. 

Selby. But to divert the subject : Kate too fond, 



I would not wrest your meanings ; else that word 

Accompanied, and full-accompanied too, 

Might raise a doubt in some men, that their wives 

Haply did think their company too long ; 

And over-company, we know by proof, 

Is worse than no attendance. 

Kath. I must guess, 

You speak this of the Widow — 

Selby. 'Twas a bolt 

At random shot ; but if it hit, believe me, 
I am most sorry to have wounded you 
Through a friend's side. I know not how we have 

swerved 
From our first talk. I was to caution you 
Against this fault of a too grateful nature : 
Which, for some girlish obligations past, 
In that relenting season of the heart, 
When slightest favours pass for benefits 
Of endless binding, would entail upon you 
An iron slavery of obsequious duty 
To the proud will of an imperious woman. 

Kath. The favours are not slight to her I owe. 

Selby. Slight or not slight, the tribute she exacts 
Cancels all dues — SA voice within. 

even now I hear her call you 
In such a tone, as lordliest mistresses 
Expect a slave's attendance. Prithee, Kate, 



OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. 



47 



Let her expect a brace of minutes or so. 
Say, you are busy. Use her by degrees 
To some less hard exactions. 

Kath. I conjure you, 

Detain me not. I will return — 

Selby. Sweet wife, 

Use thy own pleasure — Exit Katherine. 

but it troubles me. 
A visit of three days, as was pretended, 
Spun to ten tedious weeks, and no hint given 
When she will go ! I would this buxom Widow 
Were a thought handsomer ! I'd fairly try 
My Katherine's constancy ; make desperate love 
In seeming earnest ; and raise up such broils, 
That she, not I, should be the first to warn 
The insidious guest depart. 

Re-enter Katherine. 

So soon return'd ! 
What was our Widow's will ? 

Kath. A trifle, sir. 

Selby. Some toilet service— to adjust her head, 
Or help to stick a pin in the right place — 

Kath. Indeed 'twas none of these. 

Selby. Or new vamp up 

The tarnish'd cloak she came in. I have seen her 
Demand such service from thee, as her maid, 
Twice told to do it, would blush angry -red, 
And pack her few clothes up. Poor fool ! fond 



And yet my dearest Kate ! — This day at least 
(It is our wedding-day) we spend in freedom, 
And will forget our Widow.— Philip, our coach — 
Why weeps my wife % You know, I promised you 
An airing o'er the pleasant Hampshire downs 
To the blest cottage on the green hill side, 
Where first I told my love. I wonder much, 
If the crimson parlour hath exchanged its hue 
For colours not so welcome. Faded though it be, 
It will not show less lovely than the tinge 
Of this faint red, contending with the pale, 
Where once the full-flush'd health gave to this 

cheek 
An apt resemblance to the fruit's warm side, 
That bears my Katherine's name. — 

Our carriage, Philip. 

Enter a Servant. 
Now, Robin, what make you here ? 
s Servant. May it please you, 
I The coachman has driven out with Mrs. Frampton. 
Selby. He had no orders — 
Servant. None, sir, that I know of, 

But from the lady, who expects some letter 
At the next Post Town. 

Selby. Go, Robin. [Exit Servant. 

How is this ? 



Kath. I came to tell you so, but fear'd your 
anger — 

Selby. It was ill done though of this Mistress 
Frampton, 
This forward Widow. But a ride's poor loss 
Imports not much. In to your chamber, love, 
Where you with music may beguile the hour, 
While I am tossing over dusty tomes, 
Till our most reasonable friend returns. 

Kath. I am all obedience. [Exit Katherine. I 

Selby. Too obedient, Kate, 

And to too many masters. I can hardly 
On such a day as this refrain to speak 
My sense of this injurious friend, this pest, 
This household evil, this close-clinging fiend, 
In rough terms to my wife. 'Death, my own 

servants 
Controll'd above me ! orders countermanded ! 
What next ? 

{Servant enters and announces the Sister. 

Enter Lucy. 
Sister ! I know you are come to welcome 
This day's return. 'Twas well done. 

Lucy. You seem ruffled. 

In years gone by this day was used to be 
The smoothest of the year. Your honey turn'd 
So soon to gall ? 

Selby. Gall'd am I, and with cause, 

And rid to death, yet cannot get a riddance, 
Nay, scarce a ride, by this proud Widow's leave. 

Lucy. Something you wrote me of a Mistress 
Frampton. 

Selby. She came at first a meek admitted guest, 
Pretending a short stay ; her whole deportment 
Seem'd as of one obliged. A slender trunk, 
The wardrobe of her scant and ancient clothing, 
Bespoke no more. But in few days her dress, 
Her looks, were proudly changed. And now she 

flaunts it 
In jewels stolen or borrow'd from my wife ; 
Who owes her some strange service, of what nature 
I must be kept in ignorance. Katherine's meek 
And gentle spirit cowers beneath her eye, 
As spell-bound by some witch. 

Lucy. Some mystery hangs on it. 

How bears she in her carriage towards yourself ? 

Selby. As one who fears, and yet not greatly 
cares 
For my displeasure. Sometimes I have thought, 
A secret glance would tell me she could love, 
If I but gave encouragement. Before me 
She keeps some moderation ; but is never 
Closeted with my wife, but in the end 
I find my Katherine in briny tears. 
From the small chamber, where she first was 



48 



THE WIFE'S TRIAL; 



The gradual fiend by specious wriggling arts 

Has now ensconced herself in the best part 

Of this large mansion ; calls the left wing her own ; 

Commands my servants, equipage. — I hear 

Her hated tread. What makes she hack so soon? 

Enter Mrs. Frampton. 

Mrs. F. 0, 1 am jolter'd, bruised, and shook to 
death, 
With your vile Wiltshire roads. The villain Philip 
Chose, on my conscience, the perversest tracks, 
And stoniest hard lanes in all the county, 
Till I was fain get out, and so walk back, 
My errand unperform'd at Andover. 

Lucy. And I shall love the knave for ever after. 

[Aside. 
Mrs. F. A friend with you ! 
Selby. My eldest sister Lucy, 
Come to congratulate this returning morn — 
Sister, my wife's friend, Mistress Frampton. 

Mrs. F. Pray, 

Be seated. For your brother's sake, you are 

welcome. 
I had thought this day to have spent in homely 

fashion 
With the good couple, to whose hospitality 
I stand so far indebted. But your coming 
Makes it a feast. 

Lucy. She does the honours naturally — [Aside. 
Selby. As if she were the mistress of the house — 

[Aside. 
Mrs. F. I love to be at home with loving friends. 
To stand on ceremony with obligations, 
Is to restrain the obliger. That old coach, though, 
Of yours jumbles one strangely. 

Selby. I shall order 

An equipage soon, more easy to you, madam — 

Lucy. To drive her and her pride to Lucifer, 
I hope he means. [Aside. 

Mrs. F. I must go trim myself ; this humbled 
garb 
Would shame a wedding-feast. I have your leave 
For a short absence ?— and your Katherine — 
Selby. You'll find her in her closet — 
Mrs. F. Fare you well, then. [Exit. 

Selby. How like you her assurance ? 
Lucy. Even so well, 

That if this Widow were my guest, not yours, 
She should have coach enough, and scope to ride. 
My merry groom should in a trice convey her 
To Sarum Plain, and set her down at Stonehenge, 
To pick her path through those antiques at leisure : 
She should take sample of our Wiltshire flints. 
0, be not lightly jealous ! nor surmise, 
That to a wanton bold-faced thing like this 
Your modest shrinking Katherine could impart 



Secrets of any worth, especially 

Secrets that touch'd your peace. If there be aught, 

My life upon't, 'tis but some girlish story 

Of a First Love : which even the boldest wife 

Might modestly deny to a husband's ear, 

Much more your timid and too sensitive Katherine. 

Selby. I think it is no more ; and will dismiss 
My further fears, if ever I have had such. 

Lucy. Shall we go walk? I'd see your gardens, 
brother ; 



Your Katherine is engaged now — 
Selby. 



I'll attend you. 

[Exeunt. 



Scfmk.— Servants' Hall. 

Housekeeper, Philip, and others, laughing. 
Housekeeper. Our Lady's guest, since her short 
ride, seems ruffled, 
And somewhat in disorder. Philip, Philip, 
I do suspect some roguery. Your mad tricks 
Will some day cost you a good place, I warrant. 
Philip. Good Mistress Jane, our serious house- 
keeper, 
And sage Duenna to the maids and scullions, 
We must have leave to laugh ; our brains are 

younger, 
And undisturb'd with care of keys and pantries. 
We are wild things. 

Butler. Good Philip, tell us all. 

All. Ay, as you live, tell, tell — 
Philip. Mad fellows, you shall have it. 
The Widow's bell rang lustily and loud — 

Butler. I think that no one can mistake her 

ringing. 
Watting-maid. Our Lady's ring is soft sweet 
music to it, 
More of entreaty hath it than command. 

Philip. I lose my story, if you interrupt me thus. 
The bell, I say, rang fiercely ; and a voice 
More shrill than bell, call'd out for " Coachman 

Philip !" 
I straight obey'd, as 'tis my name and office. 
" Drive me," quoth she, " to the next market town, 
Where I have hope of letters." I made haste ; 
Put to the horses, saw her safely coach' d, 
And drove her — 

Waiting-maid. — By the straight high road to 
I guess — [Andover, 

Philip. Pray, warrant things within your 
knowledge, 
Good Mistress Abigail ; look to your dressings, 
And leave the skill in horses to the coachman. 
Butler. He'll have his humour ; best not inter- 
rupt him. 



OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. 



49 



Philip. 'Tis market-day, thought I ; and the 
poor beasts, 
Meeting such droves of cattle and of people, 
May take a fright ; so down the lane I trundled, 
Where Goodman Dobson's crazy mare was 

founder'd, 
And where the flints were biggest, and ruts widest, 
By ups and downs, and such bone-cracking motions 
We flounder' d on a furlong, till my madam, 
In policy, to save the few joints left her, 
Betook her to her feet, and there we parted. 
All. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
Butler. Hang her, 'tis pity such as she should 

ride. 
Waiting-maid. I think she is a witch ; I have 
tired myself out 
With sticking pins in her pillow ; still she 'scapes 
them — 
Butler. And I with helping her to mum for 
claret, 
But never yet could cheat her dainty palate. 
Housekeeper. Well, well, she is the guest of 
our good Mistress, 
And so should be respected. Though, I think, 
Our master cares not for her company, 
He would ill brook we should express so much, 
By<rude discourtesies, and short attendance, 
Being but servants. (A Bell rings furiously.) 

'Tis her bell speaks now ; 
Good, good, bestir yourselves : who knows who's 
wanted ? 
Butler. But 'twas a merry trick of Philip 
coachman. {Exeunt. 

Scene — Mrs. Selby' s Chamber. 



Mrs. Frampton, Katherine, working. 
Mrs. F. I am thinking, child, how contrary our 
fates 
Have traced our lots through life. — Another needle, 
This works untowardly. — An heiress born 
To splendid prospects, at our common school 
I was as one above you all, not of you ; 
Had my distinct prerogatives ; my freedoms, 
Denied to you. Pray, listen — 

Kath. I must hear, 

What you are pleased to speak ! — How my heart 

sinks here ! {Aside. 

Mrs. F. My chamber to myself, my separate 

maid, 

My coach, and so forth. — Not that needle, simple 

one, 
With the great staring eye fit for a Cyclops ! 
Mine own are not so blinded with their griefs, 
But I could make a shift to thread a smaller. 



A cable or a camel might go through this, 
And never strain for the passage. 

Kath. I will fit you. — 

Intolerable tyranny ! {Aside. 

Mrs. F. Quick, quick ; 

You were not once so slack .---As I was saying, 
Not a young thing among ye, but observed me 
Above the mistress. Who but I was sought to 
In all your dangers, all your little difficulties, 
Your girlish scrapes ? I was the scape-goat still, 
To fetch you off ; kept all your secrets, some, 
Perhaps, since then — 

Kath. No more of that, for mercy, 

If you'd not have me, sinking at your feet, 
Cleave the cold earth for comfort. {Kneels, 

Mrs. F. This to me 1 

This posture to your friend had better suited 
The orphan Katherine in her humble school-days 
To the then rich heiress, than the wife of Selby, 
Of wealthy Mr. Selby, 

To the poor widow Frampton, sunk as she is. 
Come, come, 

.'Twas something, or 'twas nothing, that I said 
I did not mean to fright you, sweetest bed-fellow ! 
You once were so, but Selby now engrosses you. 
I'll make him give you up a night or so ; 
In faith I will : that we may lie, and talk 
Old tricks of school-days over. 

Kath. Hear me, madam — 

Mrs. F. Not by that name. Your friend — 

Kath. My truest friend, 

And saviour of my honour ! 

Mrs. F. This sounds better ; 

You still shall find me such. 

Kath. That you have graced 

Our poor house with your presence hitherto, 
Has been my greatest comfort, the sole solace 
Of my forlorn and hardly guess'd estate. 
You have been pleased 
To accept some trivial hospitalities, 
In part of payment of a long arrear 
I owe to you, no less than for my life. 

Mrs. F. You speak my services too large. 

Kath. Nay, less ; 

For what an abject thing were life to me 
Without your silence on my dreadful secret ! 
And I would wish the league we have renew'd 
Might be perpetual — 

Mrs. F. Have a care, fine madam ! 

{Aside. 
Kath. That one house still might hold us. But 
my husband 
Has shown himself of late— 

Mrs. F. How, Mistress Selby ? 

Kath. Not, not impatient. You misconstrue 
him 

E 



50 



THE WIFE'S TRIAL; 



He honours, and he loves, nay, he must love 
The friend of his wife's youth. But there are 
In which — [moods 

Mrs. F. I understand you ; — in which husbands 
And wives that love, may wish to be alone, 
To nurse the tender fits of new-born dalliance, 
After a five years' wedlock. 

Kath. Was that well, 

Or charitably put ? do these pale cheeks 
Proclaim a wanton blood ? This wasting form 
Seem a fit theatre for Levity 
To play his love-tricks on ; and act such follies, 
As even in Affection's first bland Moon 
Have less of grace than pardon in best wedlocks % 
I was about to say, that there are times, 
When the most frank and sociable man 
May surfeit on most loved society, 
Preferring loneness rather — 

Mrs. F. To my company — 

Kath. Ay, yours, or mine, or any one's. Nay, 
take 
Not this unto yourself. Even in the newness 
Of our first married loves 'twas sometimes so. 
For solitude, I have heard my Selby say, 
Is to the mind as rest to the corporal functions ; 
And he would call it oft, the day's soft sleep. 
Mrs. F. What is your drift % and whereto tends 
this speech, 
Rhetorically labour'd ? 

Kath. That you would 

Abstain but from our house a month, a week ; 
I make request but for a single day. 

Mrs. F. A month, a week, a day ! A single hour 
Is every week, and month, and the long year, 
And all the years to come ! My footing here 
Slipt once, recovers never. From the state 
Of gilded roofs, attendance, luxuries, 
Parks, gardens, sauntering walks, or wholesome 

rides, 
To the bare cottage on the withering moor, 
Where I myself am servant to myself, 
Or only waited on by blackest thoughts — 
I sink, if this be so. No ; here I sit. 
Kath. Then I am lost for ever ! 

[Sinks at her feet— curtain drops. 



Scene — An Apartment contiguous to the last. 

Selby, as if listening. 
Selby. The sounds have died away. What 
am I changed to ? 
What do I here, list'ning like to an abject, 
Or heartless wittol, that must hear no good, 
If he hear aught? "This shall to the ear of your 
husband." 



It was the Widow's word. I guess'd some mystery, 
And the solution with a vengeance comes. 
What can my wife have left untold to me, 
That must be told by proxy ? I begin 
To call in doubt the course of her life past 
Under my very eyes. She hath not been good, 
Not virtuous, not discreet ; she hath not outrun 
My wishes still with prompt and meek observance. 
Perhaps she is not fair, sweet voiced ; her eyes 
Not like the dove's ; all this as well may be, 
As that she should entreasure up a secret 
In the peculiar closet of her breast, 
And grudge it to my ear. It is my right 
To claim the halves in any truth she owns, 
As much as in the babe I have by her ; 
Upon whose face henceforth I fear to look, 
Lest I should fancy in its innocent brow 
Some strange shame written. 

Enter Lucy. 
Sister, an anxious word with you. 
From out the chamber, where my wife but now 
Held talk with her encroaching friend, I heard 
(Not of set purpose heark'ning, but by chance) 
A voice of chiding, answer'd by a tone 
Of replication, such as the meek dove 
Makes, when the kite has clutch'd her. The high 

Widow 
Was loud and stormy. I distinctly heard 
One threat pronounced — " Your husband shall 

know all." 
I am no listener, sister ; and I hold 
A secret, got by such unmanly shift, 
The pitiful'st of thefts ; but what mine ear, 
I not intending it, receives perforce, 
I count my lawful prize. Some subtle meaning 
Lurks in this fiend's behaviour ; which, by force, 
Or fraud, I must make mine. 

Lucy. The gentlest means 

Are still the wisest. What if you should press 
Your wife to a disclosure ! 

Selby. I have tried 

All gentler means ; thrown out low hints, which, 

though 
Merely suggestions still, have never fail'd 
To blanch her cheek with fears. Roughlier to 

insist, 
Would be to kill, where I but meant to heal. 

Lucy. Your own description gave that Widow 
As one not much precise, nor over coy, [out 

And nice to listen to a suit of love. 
What if you feign'd a courtship, putting on, 
(To work the secret from her easy faith) 
For honest ends, a most dishonest seeming ? 

Selby. I see your drift, and partly meet your 

counsel. 



OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. 



51 



But must it not in me appear prodigious, 

To say the least, unnatural and suspicious, 

To move hot love, where I have shown cool scorn, 

And undissembled looks of blank aversion ? 

Lucy. Vain woman is the dupe of her own 
charms, 
And easily credits the resistless power 
That in besieging beauty lies, to cast down 
The slight-built fortress of a casual hate. 

Selby. I am resolved — 

Lucy. Success attend your wooing ! 

Selby. And I'll about it roundly, my wise sister. 

{Exeunt. 

Scene— The Library, 

Mr. Selby. Mrs. Frampton. 

Selby. A fortunate encounter, Mistress Framp- 
My purpose was, if you could spare so much [ton. 
From your sweet leisure, a few words in private. 

Mrs. F. What mean his alter'd tones? These 
looks to me, 
Whose glances yet he has repell'd with coolness ? 
Is the wind changed ? I'll veer about with it, 
And meet him in all fashions. [Aside. 

All my leisure, 
Feebly bestow'd upon my kind friends here, 
Would not express a tithe of the obligements 
I every hour incur. 

Selby. No more of that. 

I know not why, my wife hath lost of late 
Much of her cheerful spirits. 

Mrs. F. It was my topic 

To-day ; and every day, and all day long, 
I still am chiding with her. " Child," I said, 
And said it pretty roundly — it may be 
I was too peremptory — we elder school-fellows, 
Presuming on the advantage of a year 
Or two, which, in that tender time, seem'd much, 
In after years, much like to elder sisters, 
Are prone to keep the authoritative style, 
When time has made the difference most ridicu- 

Selby. The observation 's shrewd. [lous 

Mrs. F. « Child," I was saying^ 

f If some wives had obtain'd a lot like yours," 
And then perhaps I sigh'd, "they would not sit 
In corners moping, like to sullen moppets 
That want their will, but dry their eyes, and look 
Their cheerful husbands in the face," perhaps 
I said, their Selby 's, "with proportion'd looks 
Of honest joy." 

Selby. You do suspect no jealousy ? 

Mrs. F. What is his import? Whereto tends 
his speech ? i Aside , 

Of whom, or what, should she be jealous, sir ? 



Selby. I do not know, but women have their 
And underneath a cold indifference, [fancies ; 

Or show of some distaste, husbands have mask'd 
A growing fondness for a female friend, 
Which the wife's eye was sharp enough to see, 
Before the friend had wit to find it out. 
You do not quit us soon \ 

Mrs. F. 'Tis as I find ; 

Your Katherine profits by my lessons, sir. — 
Means this man honest ? Is there no deceit ? 

[Aside. 

Selby. She cannot choose. — Well, well, I have 
been thinking, 
And if the matter were to do again — 

Mrs. F. What matter, sir ? 

Selby. This idle bond of wedlock ! 

These sour-sweet briars, fetters of harsh silk ; 
I might have made, I do not say a better, 
But a more fit choice in a wife. 

Mrs. F. The parch'cl ground, 

In hottest Julys, drinks not in the showers 
More greedily, than I his words ! [Aside. 

Selby. My humour 

Is to be frank and jovial ; and that man 
Affects me best, who most reflects me in 
My most free temper. 

Mrs. F. Were you free to choose, 

As jestingly I'll put the supposition, 
Without a thought reflecting on your Katherine, 
What sort of Woman would you make your choice? 

Selby. I like your humour and will meet your 
jest. 
She should be one about my Katherine's age ; 
But not so old, by some ten years, in gravity. 
One that would meet my mirth, sometimes outrun 
No muling, pining moppet, as you said, [it; 

Nor moping maid, that I must still be teaching 
The freedoms of a wife all her life after : 
But one, that, having worn the chain before, 
(And worn it lightly, as report gave out,) 
Enfranchised from it by her poor fool's death, 
Took it not so to heart that I need dread 
To die myself, for fear a second time 
To wet a widow's eye. 

Mrs. F. Some widows, sir, 

Hearing you talk so wildly, would be apt 
To put strange misconstruction on your words, 
As aiming at a Turkish liberty, 
Where the free husband hath his several mates, 
His Penseroso, his Allegro wife, 
To suit his sober, or his frolic fit. 

Selby. How judge you of that latitude ? 

Mrs. F. As one 

In European customs bred must judge. Had I 
Been born a native of the liberal East, 
I might have thought as they do. Yet I knew 



52 



THE WIFE'S TRIAL; 



A married man that took a second wife, 
And (the man's circumstances duly weigh'd 
With all their bearings) the considerate world 
Nor much approved, nor much condemn'd the 
deed. 

Selby. You move my wonder strangely. Pray, 
proceed. 

Mrs. F. An eye of wanton liking he had placed 
Upon a Widow, who liked him again, 
But stood on terms of honourable love, 
And scrupled wronging his most virtuous wife — 
When to their ears a lucky rumour ran, 
That this demure and saintly-seeming wife 
Had a first husband living ; with the which 
Being question'd, she but faintly could deny. 
" Apriest indeed there was; some words had pass'd, 
But scarce amounting to a marriage rite. 
Her friend was absent ; she supposed him dead ; 
And, seven years parted, both were free to choose." 

Selby. What did the indignant husband ? Did 
he not 
With violent handlings stigmatise the cheek 
Of the deceiving wife, who had entail'd 
Shame on their innocent babe ? 

Mrs. F. He neither tore 

His wife's locks nor his own ; but wisely weighing 
His own offence with hers in equal poise, 
And woman's weakness' gainst the strength of man. 
Came to a calm and witty compromise. 
He coolly took his gay-faced widow home, 
Made her his second wife ; and still the first 
Lost few or none of her prerogatives. 
The servants call'd her mistress still ; she kept 
The keys, and had the total ordering 
Of the house affairs ; and some slight toys excepted, 
Was all a moderate wife would wish to be. 

Selby. A tale full of dramatic incident ! — 
And if a man should put it in a play, 
How should he name the parties ? 

Mrs. F. The man's name 

Through time I have forgot — the widow's too ;_ 
But his first wife's first name, her maiden one, 
Was — not unlike to that your Katherine bore, 
Before she took the honour'd style of Selby. 

Selby. A dangerous meaning in your riddle 
lurks. 
One knot is yet unsolved ; that told, this strange 
And most mysterious drama ends. The name 
Of that first husband — 

Enter Lucy. 

Mrs. F. Sir, your pardon— 

The allegory fits your private ear. 
Some half hour hence, in the garden's secret walk, 
We shall have leisure. {Exit. 

Selby. Sister, whence come you ? 



Lucy. From your poor Katherine's chamber, 
where she droops 
In sad presageful thoughts, and sighs, and weeps, 
And seems to pray by turns. At times she looks 
As she would pour her secret in my bosom — 
Then starts, as I have seen her at the mention 
Of some immodest act. At her request, 
I left her on her knees. 

Selby. The fittest posture ; 

For great has been her fault to Heaven and me. 
She married me, with a first husband living, 
Or not known not to be so, which, in the judgment 
Of any but indifferent honesty, 
Must be esteem'd the same. The shallow Widow, 
Caught by my art, under a riddling veil 
Too thin to hide her meaning, hath confess'd all. 
Your coming in broke off the conference, 
When she was ripe to tell the fatal name 
That seals my wedded doom. 

Lucy. Was she so forward 

To pour her hateful meanings in your ear 
At the first hint \ 

Selby. Her newly flatter'd hopes 

Array'd themselves at first in forms of doubt ; 
And with a female caution she stood off 
Awhile to read the meaning of my suit, 
Which with such honest seeming I enforced, 
That her cold scruples soon gave way ; and now 
She rests prepared, as mistress or as wife, 
To seize the place of her betrayed friend — 
My much offending, but more suffering, Katherine. 

Lucy. Into what labyrinth of fearful shapes 
My simple project has conducted you — 
Were but my wit as skilful to invent 
A clue to lead you forth !— I call to mind 
A letter which your wife received from the Cape, 
Soon after you were married, with some circum- 
Of mystery too. [stances 

Selby. I well remember it. 

That letter did confirm the truth (she said) 
Of a friend's death, which she had long fear'd true, 
But knew not for a fact. A youth of promise 
She gave him out — a hot adventurous spirit — 
That had set sail in quest of golden dreams, 
And cities in the heart of Central Afric : 
But named no names, nor did I care to press 
My question further, in the passionate grief 
She show'd at the receipt. Might this be he ? 

Lucy. Tears were not all. When that first 
shower was past, 
With clasped hands she raised her eyes to Heav'n, 
As if in thankfulness for some escape, 
Or strange deliverance, in the news implied, 
Which sweeten'd that sad news. 

Selby. Something of that 

I noted also — 



OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. 



53 



Lucy. In her closet once, 

Seeking some other trifle, I espied 
A ring, in mournful characters deciphering 
The death of " Robert Halford, aged two 
And twenty." Brother, I am not given 
To the confident use of wagers, which I hold 
Unseemly in a woman's argument ; 
But I am strangely tempted now to risk 
A thousand pounds out of my patrimony, 
(And let my future husband look to it, 
If it be lost,) that this immodest Widow 
Shall name the name that tallies with that ring. 

Selby. That wager lost, I should be rich indeed — 
Rich in my rescued Kate — rich in my honour, 
Which now was bankrupt. Sister, I accept 
Your merry wager, with an aching heart 
For very fear of winning. 'Tis the hour 
That I should meet my Widow in the walk, 
The south side of the garden. On some pretence 
j Lure forth my Wife that way, that she may 

witness 
Our seeming courtship. Keep us still in sight, 
Yourselves unseen ; and by some sign I'll give, 
(A finger held up, or a kerchief waved,) 
You'll know your wager won — then break upon us, 
As if by chance. 

Lucy. I apprehend your meaning — 

Selby. And may you prove a true Cassandra 

here, 
Though my poor acres smart for't, wagering 

sister ! [Exeunt. 



Scene — Mrs. Selby's Chamber. 

Mrs. Frampton. Katherine. 

Mrs. F. Did I express myself in terms so strong? 

Kath. As nothing could have more affrighted 
me. 

Mrs. F. Think it a hurt friend's jest, in retri- 
bution 
Of a suspected cooling hospitality. 
And, for my staying here or going hence, 
(Now I remember something of our argument), 
Selby and I can settle that between us. 
You look amazed. What if your husband, child, 
Himself has courted me to stay ? 

Kath. You move 

My wonder and my pleasure equally. 

Mrs. F. Yes, courted me to stay, waved all 
objections, 
Made it a favour to yourselves ; not me, 
His troublesome guest, as you surmised. Child, 
When I recall his flattering welcome, I [child, 
Begin to think the burden of my presence 
Was— 



Kath. What, for Heaven— 

Mrs. F. A little, little spice 

Of jealousy — that's all — an honest pretext, 
No wife need blush for. Say that you should see, 
(As oftentimes we widows take such freedoms, 
Yet still on this side virtue,) in a jest 
Your husband pat me on the cheek, or steal 
A kiss, while you were by, — not else, for virtue's 
sake. 

Kath. I could endure all this, thinking my hus- 
band 
Meant it in sport — 

Mrs. F. But if in downright earnest 

(Putting myself out of the question here) 
Your Selby, as I partly do suspect, 
Own'd a divided heart — 

Kath. My own would break — 

Mrs. F. Why, what a blind and witless fool it is, 
That will not see its gains, its infinite gains — 

Kath. Gain in a loss, 

Or mirth in utter desolation ! 

Mrs. F. He doting on a face — suppose it mine, 
Or any other's tolerably fair — 
What need you care about a senseless secret ? 

Kath. Perplex'd and fearful woman ! I in part 
Fathom your dangerous meaning. You have broke 
The worse than iron band, fretting the soul, 
By which you held me captive. Whether my husband 
Is what you gave him out, or your fool'd fancy 
But dreams he is so, either way I am free. 

Mrs. F. It talks it bravely, blazons out its shame ; 
A very heroine while on its knees ; 
Rowe's Penitent, an absolute Calista ! 

Kath. Not to thy wretched self these tears are 
falling ; 
But to my husband, and offended heaven, 
Some drops are due — and then I sleep in peace, 
Relieved from frightful dreams, my dreams though 
sad. [Exit. 

Mrs. F. I have gone too far. Who knows but in 
this mood 
She may forestall my story, win on Selby 
By a frank confession ? — and the time draws on 
For our appointed meeting. The game's desperate, 
For which I play. A moment's difference 
May make it hers or mine. I fly to meet him. 

[Exit. 

Scene — A Garden. 

Mr. Selby. Mrs. Frampton. 
Selby. I am not so ill a guesser, Mrs. Frampton, 
Not to conjecture, that some passages 
In your unfinish'd story, rightly interpreted, 
Glanced at my bosom's peace ; 

You knew my wife ? 



54 



THE WIFE'S TRIAL 



Mrs. F. Even from her earliest school days — 
What of that ? 
Or how is she concern'd in my fine riddles, 
Framed for the hour's amusement ? 

Selby. By my hopes 

Of my new interest conceived in you, 
And by the honest passion of my heart, 
Which not obliquely I to you did hint ; 
Come from the clouds of misty allegory, 
And in plain language let me hear the worst. 
Stand I disgraced or no ? 

Mrs. F. Then, by my hopes 

Of my new interest conceived in you, 
And by the kindling passion in my breast, 
Which through my riddles you had almost read, 
Adjured so strongly, I will tell you all. 
In her school years, then bordering on fifteen, 
Or haply not much past, she loved a youth — 

Selby. My most ingenuous Widow — 

Mrs. F. Met him oft 

By stealth, where I still of the party was — 

Selby. Prime confidante to all the school, I war- 
rant, 
And general go-between — [Aside. 

Mrs. F. One morn he came 

In breathless haste. " The ship was under sail, 
Or in few hours would be, that must convey 
Him and his destinies to barbarous shores, 
Where, should he perish by inglorious hands, 
It would be consolation in his death 
To have call'd his Katherine his." 

Selby. Thus far the story 

Tallies with what I hoped. [Aside. 

Mrs. F. Wavering between 

The doubt of doing wrong, and losing him ; 
And my dissuasions not o'er hotly urged, 
Whom he had flatter'd with the bride-maid's part ; — 

Selby. I owe my subtle Widow, then, for this. 

[Aside. 

Mrs. F. Briefly, we went to church. The cere- 
Scarcely was huddled over, and the ring [mony 
Yet cold upon her finger, when they parted — 
He to his ship ; and we to school got back, 
Scarce miss'd, before the dinner-bell could ring. 

Selby. And from that hour — 

Mrs. F. Nor sight, nor news of him, 

For aught that I could hear, she e'er obtain'd. 

Selby. Like to a man that hovers in suspense 
Over a letter just received, on which 
The black seal hath impress'd its ominous token, 
Whether to open it or no, so I 
Suspended stand, whether to press my fate 
Further, or check ill curiosity, 
That tempts me to more loss. — The name, the name 
Of this fine youth ? 

Mrs. F. What boots it, if 'twere told? 



Selby. Now by our loves, 

And by my hopes of happier wedlocks, some day 
To be accomplish'd, give me his name ! 

Mrs. F. 'Tis no such serious matter. It was — 
Huntingdon. 

Selby. How have three little syllables pluck'd 
from me 
A world of countless hopes ! — [Aside. 

Evasive Widow. 

Mrs. F. How, sir ! — I like not this. [Aside. 

Selby. No, no, I meant 

Nothing but good to thee. That other woman, 
How shall I call her but evasive, false, 
And treacherous ? — by the trust I place in thee, 
Tell me, and tell me truly, was the name 
As you pronounced it ? 

Mrs. F. Huntingdon — the name, 

Which his paternal grandfather assumed, 
Together with the estates of a remote 
Kinsman : but our high-spirited youth — 

Selby. Yes — 

Mrs. F. Disdaining 

For sordid pelf to truck the family honours, 
At risk of the lost estates, resumed the old style, 
And ansvver'd only to the name of — 

Selby. What— 

Mrs. F. Of Halford— 

Selby. A Huntingdon to Halford changed so 
soon! 
Why, then I see, a witch hath her good spells, 
As well as bad, and can by a backward charm 
Unruffie the foul storm she has just been raising. 
[Aside. He makes the signal. 
My frank, fair-spoken Widow ! let this kiss, 
Which yet aspires no higher, speak my thanks, 
Till I can think on greater. 

Enter Lucy and Katherine. 
Mrs. F. Interrupted ! 

Selby. My sister here ! and see, where with her 
comes 
My serpent gliding in an angel's form, 
To taint the new-born Eden of our joys. 
Why should we fear them % We'll not stir a foot, 
Nor coy it for their pleasures. 

[He courts the Widow. 
Lucy (to Katherine). This your free, 

And sweet ingenuous confession, binds me 
For ever to you and it shall go bard, 
But it shall fetch you back your husband's heart, 
That now seems blindly straying ; or at worst, 
In me you have still a sister. — Some wives, brother, 
Would think it strange to catch their husbands 

thus 
Alone with a trim widow ; but your Katherine 
Is arm'd, I think, with patience. 



OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. 



55 



Kath. I am fortified 

With knowledge of self-faults to endure worse 

wrongs, 
If they be wrongs, than he can lay upon me ; 
Even to look on, and see him sue in earnest, 
As now I think he does it but in seeming, 
To that ill woman. 

Selby. Good words, gentle Kate, 

And not a thought irreverent of our Widow. 
Why 'twere unmannerly at any time, 
But most uncourteous on our wedding day, 
When we should show most hospitable. — Some 
wine ! [Wine is brought. 

I am for sports. And now I do remember, 
The old Egyptians at their banquets placed 
A charnel sight of dead men's skulls before them, 
With images of cold mortality, 
To temper their fierce joys when they grew 

rampant. 
I like the custom well : and ere we crown 
With freer mirth the day, I shall propose, 
In calmest recollection of our spirits, 
We drink the solemn ' Memory of the dead' — 

Mrs. F. Or the supposed dead— [.Aside to him. 

Selby. Pledge me, good wife — 

[She Jills. 
Nay, higher yet, till the brimm'd cup swell o'er. 

Kath. I catch the awful import of your words ; 
And, though I could accuse you of unkindness, 
Yet as your lawful and obedient wife, 
While that name lasts (as I perceive it fading, 
Nor I much longer may have leave to use it) 
I calmly take the office you impose ; 
And on my knees, imploring their forgiveness, 
Whom I in heaven or earth may have offended, 
Exempt from starting tears, and woman's weakness, 
I pledge you, sir — The Memory of the Dead ! 

[She drinks kneeling. 

Selby. 'Tis gently and discreetly said, and like 
My former loving Kate. 

Mrs. F. Does he relent \ [Aside. 

Selby. That ceremony past, we give the day 
To unabated sport. And, in requital 
Of certain stories, and quaint allegories. 
Which my rare Widow hath been telling to me 
To raise my morning mirth, if she will lend 
Her patient hearing, I will here recite 
A Parable ; and, the more to suit her taste, 
The scene is laid in the East. 

Mrs. F. I long to hear it. 

Some tale, to fit his wife. [Aside. 

Kath. Now, comes my Trial. 

Lucy. The hour of your deliverance is at hand, 
If I presage right. Bear up, gentlest sister. 

Selby. « The sultan Haroun"— Stay — now I 
have it — 



" The Caliph Haroun in his orchards had 
A fruit-tree, bearing such delicious fruits, 
That he reserved them for his proper gust ; 
And through the Palace it was death proclaim'd 
To any one that should purloin the same." 

Mrs. F. A heavy penance for so light a fault — 

Selby. Pray you, be silent/else you put me out. 
" A crafty page, that for advantage watch'd, 
Detected in the act a brother page, 
Of his own years, that was his bosom friend ; 
And thenceforth he became that other's lord, 
And like a tyrant he demean'd himself, 
Laid forced exactions on his fellow's purse ; 
And when that poor means fail'd held o'er his head 
Threats of impending death in hideous forms ; 
Till the small culprit on his nightly couch 
Dream'd of strange pains, and felt his body writhe 
In tortuous pangs around the impaling stake." 

Mrs. F. I like not this beginning — 

Selby. Pray you, attend. 

" The Secret, like a night-hag, rid his sleeps, 
And took the youthful pleasures from his days, 
And chased the youthful smoothness from his brow, 
That from a rose-cheek'd boy he waned and waned 
To a pale skeleton of what he was ; 
And would have died, but for one lucky chance." 

Kath. Oh ! 

Mrs. F. Your wife — she faints — some cordial 
— smell to this. 

Selby. Stand off. My sister best will do that 
office. 

Mrs. F. Are all his tempting speeches come 
to this % [Aside. 

Selby. What ail'd my wife ? 

Kath. A warning faintness, sir, 

Seized on my spirits, when you came to where 
You said " a lucky chance." I am better now : 
Please you go on. 

Selby. The sequel shall be brief. 

Kath. But, brief, or long, I feel my fate hangs 
on it. [Aside. 

Selby. " One morn the Caliph, in a covert hid, 
Close by an arbour where the two boys talk'd, 
(As oft, we read, that Eastern sovereigns 
Would play the eaves-dropper, to learn the truth, 
Imperfectly received from mouths of slaves,) 
O'erheard their dialogue ; and heard enough 
To judge aright the cause, and know his cue. 
The following day a Cadi was despatch'd 
To summon both before the judgment seat ; 
The lickerish culprit, almost dead with fear, 
And the informing friend, who readily, 
Fired with fair promises of large reward, 
And Caliph's love, the hateful truth disclosed." 

Mrs. F. What did the Caliph to the offending 
That had so grossly err'd ? [boy, 



56 



THE WIFE'S TRIAL; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. 



Selby. His sceptred hand, 

He forth in token of forgiveness stretch'd, 
And clapp'd his cheeks, and courted him with gifts, 
And he became once more his favourite page. 

Mrs. F. But for that other — 

Selby. He dismiss'd him straight, 

From dreams of grandeur and of Caliph's love, 
To the bare cottage on the withering moor, 
Where friends, turn'd fiends, and hollow confidants, 
And widows, hide, who in a husband's ear 
Pour baneful truths, but tell not all the truth ; 
And told him not that Robin Halford died 
Some moons before his marriage-bells were rung. 
Too near dishonour hast thou trod,* dear wife, 
And on a dangerous cast our fates were set ; 



But Heav'n, that will'd our wedlock to be blest, 

Hath interposed to save it gracious too. 

Your penance is — to dress your cheek in smiles, 

And to be once again my merry Kate 

Sister, your hand, 

Your wager won makes me a happy man, 

Though poorer, Heav'n knows, by a thousand 

pounds. 
The sky clears up after a dubious day. 
Widow, your hand. I read a penitence 
In this dejected brow ; and in this shame 
Your fault is buried. You shall in with us, 
And, if it please you, taste our nuptial fare : 
For, till this moment, I can joyful say 
Was never truly Selby's Wedding Day. 



THE END. 



LONDON : BRADBURY AND KVANS, PRINTERS, VVHITEFRIARS. 



ROSAMUND GRAY, 

&c. 



MARTIN CHARLES BURNEY, ESQ. 



Forgive me, Burney, if to thee these late 

And hasty products of a critic pen, 

Thyself no common judge of books and men, 

In feeling of thy worth I dedicate. 

My verse was offered to an older friend ; 

The humbler prose has fallen to thy share : 

Nor could I miss the occasion to declare, 

What spoken in thy presence must offend — 

That, set aside some few caprices wild, 

Those humourous clouds that flit o'er brightest days, 

In all my threadings of this worldly maze, 

(And I have watched thee almost from a child), 

Free from self-seeking, envy, low design, 

I have not found a whiter soul than thine. 



CONTENTS. 



ROSAMUND GRAY l 

ESSAYS.— 

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL - » = i9 

ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE, CONSIDERED WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR 

FITNESS FOR STAGE-REPRESENTATION . -25 

CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS, CONTEMPORARY WITH SHAKSPEARE . 34 

SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER, THE CHURCH HISTORIAN . . 43 

ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH; WITH SOME REMARKS ON 

A PASSAGE IN THE WRITINGS OF THE LATE MR. BARRY 47 

ON THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER 57 

LETTERS UNDER ASSUMED SIGNATURES, PUBLISHED IN "THE 
REFLECTOR."— 

THE LONDONER . 60 

ON BURIAL SOCIETIES ; AND THE CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER . . 61 

ON THE DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PERSONAL DEFORMITY ; WITH 
A HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING OF ADVERTISEMENTS FOR 
APPREHENDING OFFENDERS .... c ... . . - 64 

ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING HANGED . . 67 



viii CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILORS 72 

HOSEITA ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE PLEASURES OF THE 

PALATE 74 

EDAX ON APPETITE 76 

CURIOUS FRAGMENTS, EXTRACTED FROM A COMMON-PLACE BOOK, WHICH BELONGED 
TO ROBERT BURTON, THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE ANATOMY OF MELAN- 
CHOLY ... 80 



MR. H , A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



CHAPTER I. 

It was noontide. The sun was very hot. 
An old gentlewoman sat spinning in a little 
arbour at the door of her cottage. She was 
blind ; and her grand-daughter was reading 
the Bible to her. The old lady had just left 
her work, to attend to the story of Ruth. 

a Orpah kissed her mother-in-law ; but Ruth 
clave unto her." It was a passage she could 
not let pass without a comment. The moral she 
drew from it was not very new, to be sure. The 
girl had heard it a hundred times before — and 
a hundred times more she could have heard it, 
without suspecting it to be tedious. Rosa- 
mund loved her grandmother. 

The old lady loved Rosamund too ; and she 
had reason for so doing. Rosamund was to 
her at once a child and a servant. She had 
only her left in the world. They two lived 
together. 

They had once known better days. The 
story of Rosamund's parents, their failure, their 
folly, and distresses, may be told another time. 
Our tale hath grief enough in it. 

It was now about a year and a half since 
old Margaret Gray had sold off all her effects, 
to pay the debts of Rosamund's father— just 
after the mother had died of a broken heart ; 
for her husband had fled his country to hide 
his shame in a foreign land. At that period 
the old lady retired to a small cottage in the 
village of Widford in Hertfordshire. 

Rosamund, in her thirteenth year, was left 
destitute, without fortune or friends : she went 
with her grandmother. In all this time she 
had served her faithfully and lovingly. 



Old Margaret Gray, when she first came 
into these parts, had eyes, and could see. The 
neighbours said, they had been dimmed by 
weeping : be that as it may, she was latterly 
grown quite blind. " God is very good to us, 
child ; I can feel you yet." This she would 
sometimes say ; and we need not wonder to 
hear, that Rosamund clave unto her grand- 
mother 

Margaret retained a spirit unbroken by ca- 
lamity. There was a principle within, which it 
seemed as if no outward circumstances could 
reach. It was a religious principle, and she had 
taught it to Rosamund ; for the girl had mostly 
resided with her grandmother from her earliest 
years. Indeed she had taught her all that she 
knew herself ; and the old lady's knowledge 
did not extend a vast way. 

Margaret had drawn her maxims from 
observation ; and a pretty long experience in 
life had contributed to make her, at times, a 
little positive: but Rosamund never argued with 
her grandmother. 

Their library consisted chiefly in a large 
family Bible, with notes and expositions by 
various learned expositors, from Bishop Jewell 
downwards. 

This might never be suffered to lie about 
like other books, but was kept constantly 
wrapt up in a handsome case of green velvet, 
with gold tassels — the only relic of departed 
grandeur they had brought with them to the 
cottage — everything else of value had been 
sold off for the purpose above-mentioned. 

This Bible Rosamund, when a child, had never 
dared to open without permission ; and even 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



yet, from habit, continued the custom. Mar- 
garet had parted with none of her authority ; 
indeed it was never exerted with much harsh- 
ness ; and happy was Rosamund, though a girl 
grown, when she could obtain leave to read 
her Bible. It was a treasure too valuable for 
an indiscriminate use ; and Margaret still 
pointed out to her grand-daughter where to read. 

Besides this, they had the "Complete Angler, 
or Contemplative Man's Recreation," with cuts 
— « Pilgrim's Progress," the first part — a 
Cookery Book, with a few dry sprigs of rose- 
mary and lavender stuck here and there be- 
tween the leaves, (I suppose, to point to 
some of the old lady's most favourite receipts,) 
and there was " Wither's Emblems," an old 
book, and quaint. The old-fashioned pictures 
in this last book were among the first exciters 
of the infant Rosamund's curiosity. Her con- 
templation had fed upon them in rather older 
years. 

Rosamund had not read many books besides 
these ; or if any, they had been only occa- 
sional companions : these were to Rosamund 
as old friends, that she had long known. I 
know not whether the peculiar cast of her 
mind might not be traced, in part, to a tincture 
she had received, early in life, from "Walton 
and Wither, from John Bunyan and her Bible. 

Rosamund's mind was pensive and reflective, 
ratherthan what passes usually for clever or acute. 
From a child she was remarkably shy and 
thoughtful — this was taken for stupidity and 
want of feeling ; and the child has been some- 
times whipt for being a stubborn thing, when her 
little heart was almost bursting with affection. 

Even now her grandmother would often re- 
prove her, when she found her too grave or 
melancholy ; give her sprightly lectures about 
good-humour and rational mirth ; and not un- 
frequently fall a-crying herself, to the great 
discredit of her lecture. Those tears endeared 
her the more to Rosamund. 

Margaret would say, " Child, I love you to 
cry, when I think you are only remembering 
your poor dear father and mother ; — I would 
have you think about them sometimes — it would 
be strange if you did not ; but I fear, Rosamund — 
I fear, girl, you sometimes think too deeply 
about your own situation and poor prospects 
in life. When you do so, you do wrong — re- 
member the naughty rich man in the parable. 



He never had any good thoughts about God, 
and his religion : and that might have been 
your case." 

Rosamund, at these times, could not reply to 
her ; she was not in the habit of arguing with 
her grandmother ; so she was quite silent 
on these occasions — or else the girl knew well 
enough herself, that she had only been sad to 
think of the desolate condition of her best 
friend, to see her, in her old age, so infirm and 
blind. But she had never been used to make 
excuses, when the old lady said she was doing 
wrong. 

The neighbours were all very kind to them. 
The veriest rustics never passed them without 
a bow, or a pulling off of the hat — some show of 
courtesy, awkward indeed, but affectionate — 
with a " Good-morrow, madam," or " young 
madam," as it might happen. 

Rude and savage natures, who seem born with 
a propensity to express contempt for anything 
that looks like prosperity, yet felt respect for 
its declining lustre. 

The farmers, and better sort of people, (as 
they are called,) all promised to provide for 
Rosamund when her grandmother should die. 
Margaret trusted in God and believed them. 

She used to say, " I have lived many years 
in the world, and have never known people, good 
people,to be left without some friend ; a relation, 
a benefactor, a something. God knows our 
wants — that it is not good for man or woman 
to be alone ; and he always sends us a help- 
mate, a leaning-place, a somewhat." Upon this 
sure ground of experience, did Margaret build 
her trust in Providence. 



CHAPTER II. 

Rosamund had just made an end of her story, 
(as I was about to relate,) and was listening to 
the application of the moral, (which said appli- 
cation she was old enough to have made her- 
self, but her grandmother still continued to 
treat her, in many respects, as a child, and 
Rosamund was in no haste to lay claim to the 
title of womanhood,) when a young gentleman 
made his appearance and interrupted them. 

It was young Allan Clare, who had brought 
a present of peaches, and some roses, for Rosa- 
mund. 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



He laid his little basket down on a seat of 
the arbour ; and in a respectful tone of voice, 
as though he were addressing a parent, inquired 
of Margaret " how she did." 

The old lady seemed pleased with his atten- 
tions — answered his inquiries by saying, that 
" her cough was less troublesome a-nights, but 
she had not yet got rid of it, and probably she 
never might ; but she did not like to tease 
young people with an account of her infirmities ." 

A few kind words passed on either side, 
when young Clare, glancing a tender look at 
the girl, who had all this time been silent, took 
leave of them with saying, " I shall bring 
Elinor to see you in the evening." 

When he was gone, the old lady began to 
prattle. 

a That is a sweet-dispositioned youth, and I 
do love him dearly, I must say it — there is such 
a modesty in all he says or does — he should 
not come here so often, to be sure, but I don't 
know how to help it ; there is so much good- 
ness in him, I can't find it in my heart to for- 
bid him. But, Rosamund, girl, I must tell you 
beforehand ; when you grow older, Mr. Clare 
must be no companion for you: while you were 
both so. young it was all very well — but the 
time is coming, when folks will think harm of 
it, if a rich young gentleman, like Mr. Clare, 
comes so often to our poor cottage. — Dost hear, 
girl ? Why don't you answer ? Come, I did 
not mean to say anything to hurt you — speak 
to me, Rosamund — nay, I must not have you 
be sullen — I don't love people that are sullen." 

And in this manner was this poor soul run- 
ning on, unheard and unheeded, when it oc- 
curred to her, that possibly the girl might not 
be within hearing. 

And true it was, that Rosamund had slunk 
away at the first mention of Mr. Clare's good 
qualities : and when she returned, which was 
not till a few minutes after Margaret had made 
an end of her fine harangue, it is certain her 
cheeks did look very rosy. That might have 
been from the heat of the day or from exercise, 
for she had been walking in the garden. 

Margaret, we know, was blind ; and, in this 
case, it was lucky for Rosamund that she was 
so, or she might have made some not unlikely 
surmises. 

I must not have my reader infer from this, 
that I at all think it likely, a young maid of 



fourteen would fall in love without asking her 
grandmother's leave — the thing itself is not to 
be conceived. 

To obviate all suspicions, I am disposed to 
communicate a little anecdote of Rosamund. 

A month or two back her grandmother had 
been giving her the strictest prohibitions, in 
her walks, not to go near a certain spot, which 
was dangerous from the circumstance of a 
huge overgrown oak-tree spreading its prodi- 
gious arms across a deep chalk-pit, which they 
partly concealed. 

To this fatal place Rosamund came one day 
— female curiosity, we know, is older than the 
flood — let us not think hardly of the girl, if she 
partook of the sexual failing. 

Rosamund ventured further and further — 
climbed along one of the branches — approached 
the forbidden chasm — her foot slipped — she 
was not killed — but it was by a mercy she 
escaped — other branches intercepted her fall — 
and with a palpitating heart she made her way 
back to the cottage. 

It happened that evening, that her grand- 
mother was in one of her best humours, caressed 
Rosamund, talked of old times, and what a 
blessing it was they two found a shelter in their 
little cottage, and in conclusion told Rosamund, 
" she was a good girl, and God would one day 
reward her for her kindness to her old blind 
grandmother." 

This was more than Rosamund could bear. 
Her morning's disobedience came fresh into 
her mind ; she felt she did not deserve all 
this from Margaret, and at last burst into a fit 
of crying, and made confession of her fault. 
The old gentlewoman kissed and forgave her. 

Rosamund never went near that naughty 
chasm again. 

Margaret would never have heard of this, if 
Rosamund had not told of it herself. But this 
young maid had a delicate moral sense, which 
would not suffer her to take advantage of her 
grandmother, to deceive her, or conceal any- 
thing from her, though Margaret was old, and 
blind, and easy to be imposed upon. 

Another virtuous trait I recollect of Rosa- 
mund, and now I am in the vein will tell it. 

Some, I know, will think these things trifles 
- — and they are so — but if these minutice make 
my reader better acquainted with Rosamund, 
I am content to abide the imputation. 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



These promises of character, hints, and early 
indications of a sweet nature, are to me more 
dear, and choice in the selection, than any of 
those pretty wild flowers, which this young 
maid, this virtuous Rosamund, has ever gathered 
in a fine May morning, to make a posy to place 
in the bosom of her old blind friend. 

Rosamund had a very just notion of draAving, 
and would often employ her talent in making 
sketches of the surrounding scenery. 

On a landscape, a larger piece than she had 
ever yet attempted, she had now been working 
for three or four months. She had taken great 
pains with it, given much time to it. and it 
was nearly finished. For whose particular in- 
spection it was designed, I will not venture to 
conjecture. "We know it could not have been 
for her grandmother's. 

One day she went out on a short errand, and 
left her landscape on the table. When she re- 
turned, she found it gone. 

Rosamund from the first suspected some 
mischief, but held her tongue. At length she 
made the fatal discovery. Margaret, in her 
absence, had laid violent hands on it ; not 
knowing what it was, but taking it for some 
waste-paper, had torn it in half, and with one 
half of this elaborate composition had twisted 
herself up — a thread-paper ! 

Rosamund spread out her hands at sight of 
the disaster, gave her grandmother a roguish 
smile, but said not a word. She knew the 
poor soul would only fret, if she told her of it, 
— and when once Margaret was set a fretting 
for other people's misfortunes, the fit held her 
pretty long. 

So Rosamund that very afternoon began 
another piece of the same size and subject; 
and Margaret, to her dying day, never dreamed 
of the mischief she had unconsciously done. 



CHAPTER III. 

Rosamund Gray was the most beautiful 
young creature that eyes ever beheld. Her face 
had the sweetest expression in it — a gentleness 
— a modesty — a timidity — a certain charm — a 
grace without a name. 

There was a sort of melancholy mingled in 
her smile. It was not the thoughtless levity 
of a girl — it was not the restrained simper of 



premature womanhood — it was something 
which the poet Young might have remembered, 
when he composed that perfect line, 

" Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair." 
She was a mild-eyed maid, and everybody 
loved her. Young Allan Clare, when but a boy, 
sighed for her. 

Her yellow hair fell in bright and curling 
clusters, like 

" Those hanging locks 
Of young Apollo." 

Her voice was trembling and musical. A 
graceful diffidence pleaded for her whenever 
she spake — and, if she said but little, that 
little found its way to the heart. 

Young, and artless, and innocent, meaning 
no. harm, and thinking none ; affectionate as a 
smiling infant — playful, yet inobtrusive, as a 
weaned lamb — every body loved her. Young 
Allan Clare, when but a boy, sighed for her. 



The moon is shining in so brightly at my win- 
dow, where I write, that I feel it a crime not to 
suspend my employment awhile to gaze at her. 

See how she glideth, in maiden honour, 
through the clouds, who divide on either side 
to do her homage. 

Beautiful vision ! — as I contemplate thee, 
an internal harmony is communicated to my 
mind, a moral brightness, a tacit analogy of 
mental purity ; a calm like that we ascribe in 
fancy to the favoured inhabitants of thy fairy 
regions, " argent fields." 

I marvel not, moon, that heathen people, 
in the " olden times," did worship thy deity — 
Cynthia, Diana, Hecate. Christian Europe in- 
vokes thee not by these names no w— her idolatry 
is of a blacker stain : Belial is her God — she 
worships Mammon. 

False things are told concerning thee, fair 
planet — for I will ne'er believe that thou canst 
take a perverse pleasure in distorting the brains 
of us, poor mortals. Lunatics ! moonstruck I 
Calumny invented, and folly took up, these 
names. I would hope better things from thy 
mild aspect and benign influences. 

Lady of Heaven, thou lendest thy pure lamp 
to light the way to the virgin mourner, when 
she goes to seek the tomb where her warrior 
lover lies. 

Friend of the distressed, thou speakest only 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



peace to the lonely sufferer, who walks forth in 
the placid evening, beneath thy gentle light, 
to chide at fortune, or to complain of changed 
friends, or unhappy loves. 

Do I dream, or doth not even now a heavenly 
calm descend from thee into my bosom, as I 
meditate on the chaste loves of Rosamund and 
her Clare ! 



CHAPTER IV. 

Allan Clare was just two years older than 
Rosamund. He was a boy of fourteen, when 
he first became acquainted with her — it was 
soon after she had come to reside with her 
grandmother at Widford. 

He met her by chance one day, carrying a 
pitcher in her hand, which she had been filling 
from a neighbouring well — the pitcher was 
heavy, and she seemed to be bending with its 
weight. 

Allan insisted on carrying it for her — for he 
thought it a sin, that a delicate young maid, 
like her, should be so employed, and he stand 
idle by. 

Allan had a propensity to do little kind 
offices for everybody — but at the sight of Rosa- 
mund Gray, his first fire was kindled — his 
young mind seemed to have found an object, 
and his enthusiasm was from that time forth 
awakened. His visits, from that day, were 
pretty frequent at the cottage. 

He was never happier than when he could 
get Rosamund to walk out with him. He 
would make her admire the scenes he admired 
— fancy the wild flowers he fancied — watch 
the clouds he was watching — and not unfre- 
quently repeat to her poetry which he loved, 
and make her love it. 

On their return, the old lady, who considered 
them yet as but children, would bid Rosamund 
fetch Mr. Clare a glass of her currant- wine, a 
bowl of new milk, or some cheap dainty, which 
was more welcome to Allan than the costliest 
delicacies of a prince's court. 

The boy and girl, for they were no more at 
that age, grew fond of each other — more fond 
than either of them suspected. 

" They would sit, and sigh, 
And look upon each other, and conceive 
Not what they ail'd ; yet something they did ail, 
And yet were well — and yet they were not well ; 
And what was their disease, they could not tell." 



And thus, 

" In this first garden of their simpleness 
They spent their childhood." 

A circumstance had lately happened, which 
in some sort altered the nature of their at- 
tachment. 

Rosamund was one day reading the tale of 
"Julia de Roubigne" — a book which young 
Clare had lent her. 

Allan was standing by, looking over her, 
with one hand thrown round her neck, and a 
finger of the other pointing to a passage in 
Julia's third letter. 

"Maria ! in my hours of visionary indulgence, 
I have sometimes painted to myself a husband 
— no matter whom — comforting me amidst the 
distresses which fortune had laid upon us. I 
have smiled upon him through my tears ; tears, 
not of anguish, but of tenderness ! — our children 
were playing around us, unconscious of mis- 
fortune ; we had taught them to be humble, 
and to be happy ; our little shed was reserved 
to us, and their smiles to cheer it. — I have 
imagined the luxury of such a scene, and afflic- 
tion became a part of my dream of happiness." 

The girl blushed as she read, and trembled 
— she had a sort of confused sensation, that 
Allan was noticing her — yet she durst not lift 
her eyes from the book, but continued reading, 
scarce knowing what she read. 

Allan guessed the cause of her confusion, 
Allan trembled too — his colour came and went 
— his feelings became impetuous — and, flinging 
both arms round her neck, he kissed his young 
favourite. 

Rosamund was vexed and pleased, soothed 
and frightened, all in a moment— a fit of tears 
came to her relief. 

Allan had indulged before in these little 
freedoms, and Rosamund had thought no harm 
of them ; but from this time the girl grew timid 
and reserved — distant in her manner, and 
careful of her behaviour, in Allan's presence — ■ 
not seeking his society as before, but rather 
shunning it — delighting more to feed upon his 
idea in absence. 

Allan too, from this day, seemed changed : 
his manner became, though not less tender, 
yet more respectful and diffident — his bosom 
felt a throb it had till now not known, in the 
society of Rosamund — and, if he was less 
familiar with her than in former times, that 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



charm of delicacy had superadded a grace to 
Rosamund, which, while he feared, he loved. 

There is a mysterious character, heightened 
indeed by fancy and passion, but not without 
foundation in reality and observation, which 
true lovers have ever imputed to the object of 
their affections. This character Rosamund 
had now acquired with Allan — something 
angelic, perfect, exceeding nature. 

Young Clare dwelt very near to the cottage. 
He had lost his parents, who were rather 
wealthy, early in life ; and was left to the care 
of a sister, some ten years older than him- 
self. 

Elinor Clare was an excellent young lady — 
discreet, intelligent, and affectionate. Allan 
revered her as a parent, while he loved her as 
his own familiar friend. He told all the little 
secrets of his heart to her — but there was one, 
which he had hitherto unaccountably concealed 
from her — namely, the extent of his regard for 
Rosamund. 

Elinor knew of his visits to the cottage, and 
was no stranger to the persons of Margaret 
and her grand-daughter. She had several 
times met them, when she had been walking 
with her brother — a civility usually passed on 
either side — but Elinor avoided troubling her 
brother with any unseasonable questions. 

Allan's heart often beat, and he has been 
going to tell his sister all — but something like 
shame (false or true, I shall not stay to inquire) 
had hitherto kept him back ; — still the secret, 
unrevealed, hung upon his conscience like a 
crime — for his temper had a sweet and noble 
frankness in it, which bespake him yet a virgin 
from the world. 

There was a fine openness in his countenance 
— the character of it somewhat resembled 
Rosamund's — except that more fire and enthu- 
siasm were discernible in Allan's ; his eyes 
were of a darker blue than Rosamund's— his 
hair was of a chestnut colour — his cheeks 
ruddy, and tinged with brown. There was a 
cordial sweetness in Allan's smile, the like to 
which I never saw in any other face. 

Elinor had hitherto connived at her brother's 
attachment to Rosamund. Elinor, I believe, 
was something of a physiognomist, and thought 
she could trace in the countenance and manner 
of Rosamund, qualities which no brother of 
hers need be ashamed to love. 



The time was now come, when Elinor was 
desirous of knowing her brother's favourite 
more intimately — an opportunity offered of 
breaking the matter to Allan. 

The morning of the day in which he carried 
his present of fruit and flowers to Rosamund, 
his sister had observed him more than usually 
busy in the garden, culling fruit with a nicety 
of choice not common to him. 

She came up to him, unobserved, and, taking 
him by the arm, inquired, with a questioning 
smile — " What are you doing, Allan ? and who 
are those peaches designed for ?" 

" For Rosamund Gray" — he replied — and his 
heart seemed relieved of a burthen which had 
long oppressed it. 

" I have a mind to become acquainted with 
your handsome friend — will you introduce me, 
Allan ? I think I should like to go and see 
her this afternoon." 

" Do go, do go, Elinor — you don't know what 
a good creature she is ; and old blind Margaret, 
you will like her very much." 

His sister promised to accompany him after 
dinner ; and they parted. Allan gathered no 
more peaches, but hastily cropping a few roses 
to fling into his basket, went away with it half 
filled, being impatient to announce to Rosa- 
mund the coming of her promised visitor. 



CHAPTER V. 

When Allen returned home, he found an 
invitation had been left for him, in his absence, 
to spend that evening with a young friend, who 
had just quitted a public school in London, and 
was come to pass one night in his father's house 
at Widford, previous to his departure the next 
morning for Edinburgh University. 

It was Allan's bosom friend — they had not 
met for some months — and, it was probable, a 
much longer time must intervene before they 
should meet again. 

Yet Allan could not help looking a little 
blank, when he first heard of the invitation. 
This was to have been an important evening. 
But Elinor soon relieved her brother, by 
expressing her readiness to go alone to the 
cottage. 

" I will not lose the pleasure I promised 
myself, whatever you may determine upon, 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



7 



Allan; I will go by myself rather than be 
disappointed." 

« Will yon, will yon, Elinor ?" 

Elinor promised to go— and I believe, Allan, 
on a second thought, was not very sorry to be 
spared the awkwardness of introducing two 
persons to each other, both so dear to him, 
but either of whom might happen not much 
to fancy the other. 

At times, indeed, he was confident that 
Elinor must love Rosamund, and Rosamund 
must love Elinor ; but there were also times in 
which he felt misgivings — it was an event he 
could scarce hope for very joy ! 

Allan's real presence that evening was more 
at the cottage than at the house, where his 
bodily semblance was visiting — his friend could 
not help complaining of a certain absence of 
mind, a coldness he called it. 

It might have been expected, and in the 
course of things predicted, that Allan would 
have asked his friend some questions of what 
had happened since their last meeting, what 
his feelings were on leaving school, the proba- 
ble time when they should meet again, and a 
hundred natural questions which friendship is 
most lavish of at such times ; but nothing of 
all this ever occurred to Allan — they did not 
even settle the method of their future corres- 
pondence. 

The consequence was, as might have been 
expected, Allan's friend thought him much 
altered, and, after his departure, sat down to 
compose a doleful sonnet about a " faithless 
friend," — I do not find that he ever finished it 
—indignation, or a dearth of rhymes, causing 
him to break off in the middle. 



CHAPTER VI. 

In my catalogue of the little library at the 
cottage, I forgot to mention a book of Common 
Prayer. My reader's fancy might easily have 
supplied the omission — old ladies of Margaret's 
stamp (God bless them !) may as well be without 
their spectacles, or their elbow chair, as their 
prayer-book — I love them for it. 

Margaret's was a handsome octavo, printed 
by Baskerville, the binding red, and fortified 
with silver at the edges. Out of this book it 



was their custom every afternoon to read the 
proper psalms appointed for the day. 

The way they managed was this : they took 
verse by verse — Rosamund read her little por- 
tion, and Margaret repeated hers, in turn, from 
memory — for Margaret could say all the Psalter 
by heart, and a good part of the Bible besides. 
She would not unfrequently put the girl right 
when she stumbled or skipped. This Margaret 
imputed to giddiness — a quality Avhich Rosa- 
mund was by no means remarkable for — but 
old ladies, like Margaret, are not in all instances 
alike discriminative. 

They had been employed in this manner 
just before Miss Clare arrived at the cottage. 
The psalm they had been reading was the hun- 
dred and fourth — Margaret was naturally led 
by it into a discussion of the works of creation. 

There had been thunder in the course of the 
day — an occasion of instruction which the old 
lady never let pass — she began — 

"Thunder has a very awful sound — some 
say, God Almighty is angry whenever it 
thunders — that it is the voice of God speaking 
to us : for my part, I am not afraid of it — " 

And in this manner the old lady was going 
on to particularise, as usual, its beneficial 
effects, in clearing the air, destroying of 
vermin, &c, when the entrance of Miss Clare 
put an end to her discourse. 

Rosamund received her with respectful ten- 
derness — and, taking her grandmother by the 
hand, said, with great sweetness, " Miss Clare 
is come to see you, grandmother." 

" I beg pardon, lady — I cannot see you — but 
you are heartily welcome — is your brother 
with you, Miss Clare ? I don't hear him." 

" He could not come, madam, but he sends 
his love by me." 

" You have an excellent brother, Miss Clare 
— but pray do us the honour to take some 
refreshment— Rosamund " 

And the old lady was going to give direc- 
tions for a bottle of her currant-wine — when 
Elinor, smiling, said " she was come to take a 
cup of tea with her, and expected to find no 
ceremony." 

" After tea, I promise myself a walk with 
you, Rosamund, if your grandmother can spare 
you." — Rosamund looked at her grandmother. 

" Oh, for that matter, I should be sorry to 
debar the girl from any pleasure — I am sure 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



it's lonesome enough for her to be with me 
always— and if Miss Clare will take you out, 
child, I shall do very well by myself till you 
return — it will not be the first time, you know, 
that I have been left here alone— some of the 
neighbours will be dropping in bye and bye — 
or, if not, I shall take no harm." 

Rosamund had all the simple manners of 
a child ; she kissed her grandmother, and 
looked happy. 

All tea-time the old lady's discourse was 
little more than a panegyric on young Clare's 
good qualities. Elinor looked at her young 
friend, and smiled. Rosamund was beginning 
to look grave — but there was a cordial sunshine 
in the face of Elinor, before which any clouds 
of reserve that had been gathering on Rosa- 
mund's soon brake away. 

" Does your grandmother ever go out, Rosa- 
mund ?" 

Margaret prevented the girl's reply, by say- 
ing — " My dear young lady, I am an old woman, 
and very infirm — Rosamund takes me a few 
paces beyond the door sometimes — but I walk 
very badly — I love best to sit in our little 
arbour, when the sun shines — I can yet feel 
it warm and cheerful — and, if I lose the 
beauties of the season, I shall be very happy if 
you and Rosamund can take delight in this 
fine summer evening." 

" I shall want to rob you of Rosamund's 
company now and then, if we like one another. 
I had hoped to have seen you, madam, at our 
house. I don't know whether we could not 
make room for you to come and live with us 
— what say you to it ? Allan would be proud 
to tend you, I am sure ; and Rosamund and I 
should be nice company." 

Margaret was all unused to such kindnesses, 
and wept — Margaret had a great spirit — yet 
she was not above accepting an obligation from 
a worthy person — there was a delicacy in Miss 
Clare's manner — she could have no interest, but 
pure goodness, to induce her to make the offer — 
at length the old lady. spake from a full heart. 

" Miss Clare, this little cottage received us 
in our distress — it gave us shelter when we 
had no home — we have praised God in it — and, 
while life remains, I think. I shall never part 
from it — Rosamund does everything for me — " 

" And will do, grandmother, as long as I 
live ;" — and then Rosamund fell a-crying. 



u You are a good girl, Rosamund, and if you 
do but find friends when I am dead and gone, 
I shall want no better accommodation while I 
live — but God bless you, lady, a thousand 
times, for your kind offer." 

Elinor was moved to tears, and, affecting a 
sprightliness, bade Rosamund prepare for her 
walk. The girl put on her white silk bonnet ; 
and Elinor thought she never beheld so lovely 
a creature. 

They took leave of Margaret, and walked 
out together : they rambled over all Rosa- 
mund's favourite haunts — through many a 
sunny field — by secret glade or wood- walk, 
where the girl had wandered so often with her 
beloved Clare. 

Who now so happy as Rosamund ? She had 
oft-times heard Allan speak with great tender- 
ness of his sister — she was now rambling, arm 
in arm, with that very sister, the " vaunted 
sister" of her friend, her beloved Clare. 

Not a tree, not a bush, scarce a wild flower 
in their path, but revived in Rosamund some 
tender recollection, a conversation perhaps, or 
some chaste endearment. Life, and a new 
scene of things, were now opening before her 
— she was got into a fairy land of uncertain 
existence. 

Rosamund was too happy to talk much — but 
Elinor was delighted with her when she did 
talk : — the girl's remarks were suggested, most 
of them by the passing scene — and they betrayed, 
all of them, the liveliness of present impulse : — 
her conversation did not consist in a compari- 
son of vapid feeling, an interchange of senti- 
ment lip-deep — it had all the freshness of 
young sensation in it. 

Sometimes they talked of Allan. 

u Allan is very good," said Rosamund, " very 
good indeed to my grandmother — he will sit 
with her, and hear her stories, and read to her, 
and try to divert her a hundred ways. I won- 
der sometimes he is not tired. She talks him 
to death !" 

" Then you confess, Rosamund, that the olc* 
lady does tire you sometimes ?" 

" Oh no, I did not mean that — it's very dif- 
ferent — I am used to all her ways, and I can 
humour her, and please her, and I ought to do 
it, for she is the only friend I ever had in the 
world." 

The new friends did not conclude their walk 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



till it was late, and Rosamund began to be 
apprehensive about the old lady, who had been 
all this time alone. 

On their return to the cottage, they found 
that Margaret had been somewhat impatient 
— old ladies, good old ladies, will be so at times- 
— age is timorous and suspicious of danger, 
where no danger is. 

Besides, it was Margaret's bed-time, for she 
kept very good hours — indeed, in the distribu- 
tion of her meals, and sundry other particulars, 
she resembled the livers in the antique world, 
more than might well beseem a creature of 
this. 

So the new friends parted for that night — 
Elinor having made Margaret promise to give 
Rosamund leave to come and see her the next 
day. 



CHAPTER VII. 

Miss Clare, we may be sure, made her 
brother very happy, when she told him of the 
engagement she had made for the morrow, and 
how delighted she had been with his handsome 
friend. 

Allan, I believe, got little sleep that night. 
I know not, whether joy be not a more trouble- 
some bed-fellow than grief— hope keeps a body 
very wakeful, I know. 

Elinor Clare was the best good creature — 
the least selfish human being I ever knew — 
always at work for other people's good, 
planning other people's happiness — continually 
forgetful to consult for her own personal 
gratifications, except indirectly, in the welfare 
of another ; — while her parents lived, the most 
attentive of daughters — since tbey died, the 
kindest of sisters — I never knew but one like 
her. 

It happens that I have some of this young 
lady's letters in my possession — I shall present 
my reader with one of them. It was written 
a short time after the death of her mother, and 
addressed to a cousin, a dear friend of Elinor's, 
who was then on the point of being married to 
Mr. Beaumont, of Staffordshire, and had in- 
vited Elinor to assist at her nuptials. I will 
transcribe it with minute fidelity. 



ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA LESLIE. 

Widford, July the — , 17—. 

Health, Innocence, and Beauty, shall be 
thy bridemaids, my sweet cousin. I have no 
heart to undertake the office. Alas! what 
have I to do in the house of feasting ? 

Maria ! I fear lest my griefs should prove 
obtrusive. Yet bear with me a little — I have 
recovered already a share of my former spirits. 

I fear more for Allan than myself. The loss 
of two such parents, within so short an interval, 
bears very heavy on him. The boy hangs 
about me from morning till night. He is per- 
petually forcing a smile into his poor pale 
cheeks — you know the sweetness of his smile, 
Maria. 

To-day, after dinner, when he took his glass 
of wine in his hand, he burst into tears, and 
would not, or could not then, tell me the 
reason — afterwards he told me — " he had been 
used to drink Mamma's health after dinner, 
and that came into his head and made him cry." 
I feel the claims the boy has upon me — I per- 
ceive that I am living to some end — and the 
thought supports me. 

Already I have attained to a state of com- 
placent feelings — my mother's lessons were 
not thrown away upon her Elinor. 

In the visions of last night her spirit seemed 
to stand at my bed-side — a light, as of noon- 
day, shone upon the room — she opened my 
curtains — she smiled upon me with the same 
placid smile as in her life-time. I felt no fear. 
"Elinor," she said, "for my sake take care 
of young Allan," — and I awoke with calm 
feelings. 

Maria ! shall not the meeting of blessed 
spirits, think you, be something like this ! — I 
think, I could even now behold my mother 
without dread — I would ask pardon of her for 
all my past omissions of duty, for all the little 
asperities in my temper, which have so often 
grieved her gentle spirit when living. Maria ! 
I think she would not turn away from me. 

Often times a feeling, more vivid than memory, 
brings her before me — I see her sit in her old 
elbow chair — her arms folded upon her lap — a 
tear upon her cheek, that seems to upbraid her 
unkind daughter for some inattention — I wipe 
it away and kiss her honoured lips. 

Maria ! when have I been fancying all this, 



10 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



Allan will come in, with his poor eyes red with 
weeping, and taking me by the hand, destroy 
the vision in a moment. 

I am prating to you, my sweet cousin, but it 
is the prattle of the heart, which Maria loves. 
Besides, whom have I to talk to of these things 
but you ? — you have been my counsellor in times 
past, my companion, and sweet familiar friend. 
Bear with me a little — I mourn the " cherishers 
of my infancy." 

I sometimes count it a blessing that my 
father did not prove the survivor. You know 
something of his story. You know there was 
a foul tale current — it was the busy malice of 

that bad man, S , which helped to 

spread it abroad — you will recollect the active 

good-nature of our friends W and T. ; 

what pains they took to undeceive people — 
with the better sort their kind labours pre- 
vailed ; but there was still a party who shut 
their ears. You know the issue of it. My 
father's great spirit bore up against it for some 
time — my father never was a bad man — but that 
spirit was broken at the last — and the greatly- 
injured man was forced to leave his old pater- 
nal dwelling in Staffordshire — for the neigh- 
bours had begun to point at him. Maria ! I 
have seen them point at him, and have been 
ready to drop. 

In this part of the country, where the slander 
had not reached, he sought a retreat — and he 
found a still more grateful asylum in the daily 
solicitudes of the best of wives. 

" An enemy hath done this," I have heard 
him say — and at such times my mother would 
speak to him so soothingly of forgiveness, and 
long-suffering, and the bearing of injuries with 
patience ; would heal all his wounds with so 
gentle a touch ; — I have seen the old man weep 
like a child. 

The gloom that beset his mind, at times be- 
trayed him into scepticism — he has doubted if 
there be a Providence ! I have heard him say, 
" God has built a brave world, but methinks 
he has left his creatures to bustle in it how they 
■may" 

At such times he could not endure to hear 
my mother talk in a religious strain. He 
would say, "Woman, have done — you con- 
found, you perplex me, when you talk of these 
matters, and for one day at least unfit me for 
the business of life." 



I have seen her look at him — God, Maria ! 
such a look ! it plainly spake that she was 
willing to have shared her precious hope with 
the partner of her earthly cares — but she found 
a repulse — 

Deprived of such a wife, think you, the old 
man could long have endured his existence ? 
or what consolation would his wretched 
daughter have had to offer him, but silent and 
imbecile tears ? 

My sweet cousin, you will think me tedious 
— and I am so — but it does me good to talk 
these matters over. And do not you be 
alarmed for me — my sorrows are subsiding 
into a deep and sweet resignation. I shall 
soon be sufficiently composed, I know it, to 
participate in my friend's happiness. 

Let me call her, while yet I may, my own 
Maria Leslie ! Methinks, I shall not like you 
by any other name. Beaumont ! Maria 
Beaumont ! it hath a strange sound with it — 
I shall never be reconciled to this name — but 
do not you fear — Maria Leslie shall plead 
with me for Maria Beaumont. 

And now, my sweet Friend, 

God love you, and your 

Elinor Clare. 



I find in my collection several letters, 
written soon after the date of the preceding, 
and addressed all of them to Maria Beaumont. 
— I am tempted to make some short extracts 
from these — my tale will suffer interruption 
by them — but I was willing to preserve what- 
ever memorials I could of Elinor Clare. 

FROM ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA BEAUMONT. 

(AN EXTRACT.) 

" 1 have been strolling out for half an 

hour in the fields ; and my mind has been 
occupied by thoughts which Maria has a right 
to participate. I have been bringing my mother 
to my recollection. My heart ached with the 
remembrance of infirmities, that made her 
closing years of life so sore a trial to her. 

I was concerned to think that our family 
differences have been one source of disquiet to 
her. I am sensible that this last we are apt to 
exaggerate after a person's death — and surely, 
in the main, there was considerable harmony 
among the members of our little family— still 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



I was concerned to think that we ever gave 
her gentle spirit disquiet. 

I thought on years back— on all my parents' 

friends — the H s, the F s, on D 

S , and on many a merry evening, in the 

fireside circle, in that comfortable back parlour 
— it is never used now. — 

O ye Mati-cvtises* of the age, ye know not 
what ye lose in despising these petty topics of 
endeared remembrance, associated circum- 
stances of past times ; — ye know not the throb- 
bings of the heart, tender yet affectionately 
familiar, which accompany the dear and 
honoured names of father or of mother. 

Maria ! I thought on all these things ; my 
heart ached at the review of them— it yet 
aches, while I write this — but I am never so 
satisfied with my train of thoughts, as when 
they run upon these subjects — the tears they 
draw from us, meliorate and soften the heart, 
and keep fresh within us that memory of dear 
friends dead, which alone can fit us for a re- 
admission to their society hereafter." 

FROM ANOTHER LETTER. 

" 1 had a bad dream this morning — 

that Allan was dead — and who, of all persons 
in the world do you think, put on mourning 
for him ? Why — Matravis. This alone might 
cure me of superstitious thoughts, if I were 
inclined to them ; for why should Matravis 
mourn for us, or our family ? — Still it was 
pleasant to awake, and find it but a dream. — 
Methinks something like an awaking from an 
ill dream shall the Resurrection from the Dead 
be. — Materially different from our accustomed 
scenes, and ways of life, the World to come may 
possibly not be — still it is represented to us 
under the notion of a Best, a Sabbath, a state of 
bliss." 

FROM ANOTHER LETTER. 

" Methinks, you and I should have 

been born under the same roof, sucked the 
same milk, conned the same horn-book, 
thumbed the same Testament, together : — for 
we have been more than sisters, Maria ! 

Something will still be whispering to me, 

that I shall one day be inmate of the same 

dwelling with my cousin, partaker with her in 

all the delights which spring from mutual 

* This name will be explained presently. 



good offices, kind words, attentions iD sickness 
and in health, — conversation, sometimes inno- 
cently trivial, and at others profitably serious ; 
— books read and commented on, together ; 
meals ate, and walks taken, together, — and 
conferences, how we may best do good to this 
poor person or that, and wean our spirits from 
the world's cares, without divesting ourselves 
of its charities. What a picture I have drawn, 
Maria ! and none of all these things may ever 
come to pass." 

FROM ANOTHER LETTER. 

" Continue to write to me, my sweet 

cousin. Many good thoughts, resolutions, and 
proper views of things, pass through the mind 
in the course of the day, but are lost for want 
of committing them to paper. Seize them, 
Maria, as they pass, these Birds of Paradise, 
that show themselves and are gone, — and make 
a grateful present of the precious fugitives to 
your friend. 

To use a homely illustration, just rising in 
my fancy, — shall the good housewife take such 
pains in pickling and preserving her worth- 
less fruits, her walnuts, her apricots, and 
quinces — and is there not much spiritual house- 
wifery in treasuring up our mind's best fruits — 
our heart's meditations in its most favoured 
moments ? 

This sad simile is much in the fashion of the 
old Moralisers, such as I conceive honest 
Baxter to have been, such as Quarles and 
Wither were with their curious, serio-comic, 
quaint emblems. But they sometimes reach 
the heart, when a more elegant simile rests in 
the fancy. 

Not low and mean, like these, but beautifully 
familiarised to our conceptions, and con- 
descending to human thoughts and notions, 
are all the discourses of our Lord — conveyed 
in parable, or similitude, what easy access do 
they win to the heart, through the medium 
of the delighted imagination ! speaking of 
heavenly things in fable, or in simile, drawn 
from earth, from objects common, accustomed. 

Life's business, with such delicious little 
interruptions as our correspondence affords, 
how pleasant it is ! — why can we not paint on 
the dull paper our whole feelings, exquisite as 
they rise up % " 



12 



ROSAMUND GRAY 



FROM ANOTHER LETTER. 

« 1 had meant to have left off at this 

place ; but looking back, I am sorry to find 
too gloomy a cast tincturing my last page — a 
representation of life false and unthankful. 
Life is not all vanity and disappointment — it 
hath much of evil in it, no doubt ; but to those 
who do not misuse it, it affords comfort, tempo- 
rary comfort, much — much that endears us to it, 
and dignifies it — many true and good feelings, 
I trust, of which we need not be ashamed — ■ 
hours of tranquillity and hope. But the morn- 
ing was dull and overcast, and my spirits were 
under a cloud. I feel my error. 

Is it no blessing, that we two love one 
another so dearly — that Allan is left me — that 
you are settled in life— that worldly affairs go 
smooth with us both — above all, that our lot 
hath fallen to us in a Christian country ? 
Maria ! these things are not little. I will con- 
sider life as a long feast, and not forget to say 
grace." 

FROM ANOTHER LETTER. 

" Allan has written to me — you know, 

he is on a visit at his old tutor's in Gloucester- 
shire — he is to return home on Thursday — 
Allan is a dear boy — he concludes his letter, 
which is very affectionate throughout, in this 
manner — 

Elinor, I charge you to learn the following 
stanza by heart — 

The monarch may forget his crown, 

That on his head an hour hath heen ; 
The bridegroom may forget his bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The mother may forget her child, 

That smiles so sweetly on her knee : 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And all that thou hast done for me. 

The lines are in Burns — you know, we read 
him for the first time together at Margate — 
and I have been used to refer them to you, 
and to call you, in my mind, Glencairn, — for you 
were always very good to me. I had a thou- 
sand failings, but you would love me in spite 
of them all. I am going to drink your health." 



I shall detain my reader no longer from the 
narrative. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

They had but four rooms in the cottage. 
Margaret slept in the biggest room up-stairs, 
and her grand-daughter in a kind of closet 
adjoining, where she could be within hearing, 
if her grandmother should call her in the 
night. 

The girl was often disturbed in that manner 
— two or three times in a night she has been 
forced to leave her bed, to fetch her grand- 
mother's cordials, or do some little service for 
her — but she knew that Margaret's ailings 
were real and pressing, and Rosamund never 
complained — never suspected, that her grand- 
mother's requisitions had anything unreason- 
able in them. 

The night she parted with Miss Clare, she 
had helped Margaret to bed, as usual — and, 
after saying her prayers, as the custom was, 
kneeling by the old lady's bed-side, kissed her 
grandmother, and wished her a good-night — 
Margaret blessed her, and charged her to go to 
bed directly. It was her customary injunction, 
and Rosamund had never dreamed of dis- 
obeying. 

So she retired to her little room. The night 
was warm and clear — the moon very bright 
— her window commanded a view of scenes she 
had been tracing in the day-time with Miss 
Clare. 

All the events of the day past, the occur- 
rences of their walk arose in her mind. She 
fancied she should like to retrace those scenes 
— but it was now nine o'clock, a late hour in 
the village. 

Still she fancied it would be very charming 
— and then her grandmother's injunction came 
powerfully to her recollection — she sighed, and 
turned from the window — and walked up and 
down her little room. 

Ever, when she looked at the window, the 
wish returned. It was not so very late. The 
neighbours were yet about, passing under the 
window to their homes — she thought, and 
thought again, till her sensations became vivid, 
even to painfulness — her bosom was aching to 
give them vent. 

The village clock struck ten ! — the neigh- 
hours ceased to pass under the window. Rosa- 
mund, stealing down stairs, fastened the latch 
behind her, and left the cottage. 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



13 



One, that knew her, met her, and observed 
her with some surprise. Another recollects 
having wished her a good-night. Rosamund 
never returned to the cottage. 

An old man, that lay sick in a small house 
adjoining to Margaret's, testified the next 
morning, that he had plainly heard the old 
creature calling for her grand-daughter. All 
the night long she made her moan, and ceased 
not to call upon the name of Rosamund. But 
no Rosamund was there — the voice died away, 
but not till near day-break. 

When the neighbours came to search in the 
morning, Margaret was missing! She had 
straggled out of bed, and made her way into 
Rosamund's room — worn out with fatigue and 
fright, when she found the girl not there, she 
had laid herself down to die — and, it is thought, 
she died praying — for she was discovered in a 
kneeling posture, her arms and face extended 
on the pillow, where Rosamund had slept the 
night before — a smile was on her face in 
death. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Fain would I draw a veil over the transac- 
tions of that night — but I cannot — grief, and 
burning shame, forbid me to be silent — black 
deeds are about to be made public, which 
reflect a stain upon our common nature. 

Rosamund, enthusiastic and improvident, 
wandered unprotected to a distance from her 
guardian doors — through lonely glens, and 
wood walks, where she had rambled many a 
day in safety — till she arrived at a shady copse, 
out of the hearing of any human habitation. 

Matravis met her. (C Flown with insolence 

and wine," returning home late at night, he 
passed that way ! 

Matravis was a very ugly man. Sallow 
complexioned ! and if hearts can wear that 
colour, his heart was sallow-complexioned 
also. 

A young man, with gray deliberation ! cold 
and systematic in all his plans ; and all his 
plans were evil. His very lust was systematic. 

He would brood over his bad purposes for 
such a dreary length of time that, it might 
have been expected, some solitary check of 
conscience must have intervened to save him 



from commission. But that Light from Heaven 
was extinct in his dark bosom. 

Nothing that is great, nothing that is amiable, 
existed for this unhappy man. He feared, he 
envied, he suspected ; but he never loved. 
The sublime and beautiful in nature, the ex- 
cellent and becoming in morals, were things 
placed beyond the capacity of his sensations. 
He loved not poetry — nor ever took a lonely 
walk to meditate — never beheld virtue, which 
he did not try to disbelieve, or female beauty 
and innocence, which he did not lust to con- 
taminate. 

A sneer was perpetually upon his face, and 
malice grinning at his heart. He would say 
the most ill-natured things, with the least 
remorse, of any man I ever knew. This gained 
him the reputation of a wit — other traits got 
him the reputation of a villain. 

And this man formerly paid his court to 
Elinor Clare ! — with what success I leave my 
readers to determine. It was not in Elinor's 
nature to despise any living thing — but in the 
estimation of this man, to be rejected was to 
be desjnsed — and Matravis never for -gate. 

He had long turned his eyes upon Rosamund 
Gray. To steal from the bosom of her friends 
the jewel they prized so much, the little ewe 
lamb they held so dear, was a scheme of 
delicate revenge, and Matravis had a two-fold 
motive for accomplishing this young maid's 
ruin. 

Often had he met her in her favourite soli- 
tudes, but found her ever cold and inaccessible. 
Of late the girl had avoided straying far from 
her own home, in the fear of meeting him — 
but she had never told her fears to Allan. 

Matravis had, till now, been content to be a 
villain within the limits of the law — but, on 
the present occasion, hot fumes of wine, co- 
operating with his deep desire of revenge, and 
the insolence of an unhoped-for meeting, over- 
came his customary prudence, and Matravis 
rose, at once, to an audacity of glorious mischief. 

Late at night he met her, a lonely, unpro- 
tected virgin — no friend at hand — no place 
near of refuge. 

Rosamund Gray, my soul is exceeding sor- 
rowful for thee — I loathe to tell the hateful 
circumstances of thy wrongs. Night and 
silence were the only witnesses of this young 
maid's disgrace — Matravis fled. 



14 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



Rosamund, polluted and disgraced, wandered, 
an abandoned thing, about the fields and 
meadows till day-break. Not caring to return 
to the cottage, she sat herself down before the 
gate of Miss Clare's house — in a stupor of 
grief. 

Elinor was just rising, and had opened the 
windows of her chamber, when she perceived 
her desolate young friend. She ran to embrace 
her — she brought her into the house — she 
took her to her bosom — she kissed her — she 
spake to her ; but Rosamund could not speak. 

Tidings came from the cottage. Margaret's 
death was an event which could not be kept 
concealed from Rosamund. "When the sweet 
maid heard of it, she languished, and fell sick 
— she never held up her head after that time. 

If Rosamund had been a sister, she could 
not have been kindlier treated than by her 
two friends. 

Allan had prospects in life — might, in time, 
have married into any of the first families in 
Hertfordshire — but Rosamund Gray, humbled 
though she was, and put to shame, had yet a 
charm for him — and he would have been content 
to share his fortunes with her yet, if Rosamund 
would have lived to be his companion. 

But this was not to be — and the girl soon 
after died. She expired in the arms of Elinor 
— quiet, gentle, as she lived — thankful, that 
she died not among strangers — and expressing, 
by signs rather than words, a gratitude for 
the most trifling services, the common offices 
of humanity. She died uncomplaining ; and 
this young maid, this untaught Rosamund, 
might have given a lesson to the grave philo- 
sopher in death. 



CHAPTER X. 

I was but a boy when these events took 
place. All the village remember the story, 
and tell of Rosamund Gray, and old blind 
Margaret. 

I parted from Allan Clare on that disastrous 
night, and set out for Edinburgh the next 
morning, before the facts were commonly 
known — I heard not of them — and it was four 
months before I received a letter from Allan. 

" His heart," he told me, " was gone from 
him — for his sister had died of a frenzy fever ! " 



— not a word of Rosamund in the letter — I 
was left to collect her story from sources which 
may one day be explained. 

I soon after quitted Scotland, on the death 
of my father, and returned to my native village. 
Allan had left the place, and I could gain no 
information, whether he were dead or living. 

I passed the cottage. I did not dare to look 
that way, or to inquire who lived there. A 
little dog, that had been Rosamund's, was 
yelping in my path. I laughed aloud like one 
mad, whose mind had suddenly gone from him 
— I stared vacantly around me, like one alien- 
ated from common perceptions. 

But I was young at that time, and the im- 
pression became gradually weakened as I 
mingled in the business of life. It is now ten 
years since these events took place, and I 
sometimes think of them as unreal. Allan 
Clare was a dear friend to me — but there are 
times when Allan and his sister, Margaret 
and her grand-daughter, appear like personages 
of a dream — an idle dream. 



CHAPTER XI. 

Strange things have happened unto me — I 
seem scarce awake — but I will recollect my 
thoughts, and try to give an account of what 
has befallen me in the few last weeks. 

Since my father's death our family have 
resided in London. I am in practice as a 
surgeon there. My mother died two years 
after we left Widford. 

A month or two ago I had been busying 
myself in drawing up the above narrative, in- 
tending to make it public. The employment 
had forced my mind to dwell upon facts, which 
had begun to fade from it — the memory of old 
times became vivid, and more vivid — I felt a 
strong desire to revisit the scenes of my native 
village — of the young loves of Rosamund and 
her Clare. 

A kind of dread had hitherto kept me back ; 
but I was restless now, till I had accomplished 
my wish. I set out one morning to walk — I 
reached Widford about eleven in the forenoon 
— after a slight breakfast at my inn — where I 
was mortified to perceive the old landlord did 
not know me again — (old Thomas Billet — he 
has often made angle-rods for me when a 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



15 



child) — I rambled over all my accustomed 
haunts. 

Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I 
entered, unmolested, into the room that had 
been my bedchamber. I kneeled down on 
the spot where my little bed had stood — I felt 
like a child — I prayed like one — it seemed as 
though old times were to return again — I 
looked round involuntarily, expecting to see 
some face I knew — but all was naked and 
mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of 
painted window, through which I loved to look 
at the sun when I awoke in a fine summer's 
morning, was taken out, and had been replaced 
by one of common glass. 

I visited, by turns, every chamber — they 
were all desolate and unfurnished, one ex- 
cepted, in which the owner had left a harp- 
sichord, probably to he sold — I touched the 
keys — I played some old Scottish tunes, which 
had delighted me when a child. Past associa- 
tions revived with the music — blended with a 
sense of unreality, which at last became too 
powerful — I rushed out of the room to give 
vent to my feelings. 

I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an 
old wood, that stands at the back of the house 
— we called it the Wilderness. A well-known 
form was missing, that used to meet me in this 
place — it was thine, Ben Moxam — the kindest, 
gentlest, politest of human beings, yet was he 
nothing higher than a gardener in the family. 
Honest creature ! thou didst never pass me in 
my childish rambles, without a soft speech, and 
a smile. I remember thy good-natured face. 
But there is one thing, for which I can never 
forgive thee, Ben Moxam— that thou didst join 
with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel 
plot, to lop away the hanging branches of the 
old fir-trees — I remember them sweeping to 
the ground. 

I have often left my childish sports to ramble 
in this place — its glooms and its solitude had a 
mysterious charm for my young mind, nurturing 
within me that love of quietness and lonely 
thinking, which has accompanied me to ma- 
turer years. 

In this Wilderness I found myself, after a 
ten years' absence. Its stately fir-trees were 
yet standing, with all their luxuriant company 
of underwood — the squirrel was there, and the 
melancholy cooings of the wood-pigeon — all was 



as I had left it — my heart softened at the sight 
— it seemed as though my character had been 
suffering a change since I forsook these shades. 

My parents were both dead — I had no coun- 
sellor left, no experience of age to direct me, 
no sweet voice of reproof. The Lord had 
taken away my friends, and I knew not where 
he had laid them. I paced round the wilderness, 
seeking a comforter. I prayed that I might 
be restored to that state of innocence, in which I 
had wandered in those shades. 

Methought my request was heard, for it 
seemed as though the stains of manhood were 
passing from me, and I were relapsing into 
the purity and simplicity of childhood. I was 
content to have been moulded into a perfect 
child. I stood still, as in a trance. I dreamed 
that I was enjoying a personal intercourse with 
my heavenly Father — and, extravagantly, put 
off the shoes from my feet — for the place where 
I stood, I thought, was holy ground. 

This state of mind could not last long, and 
I returned with languid feelings to my inn. 
I ordered my dinner — green peas and a sweet- 
bread — it had been a favourite dish with me 
in my childhood — I was allowed to have it on 
my birth-days. I was impatient to see it come 
upon table — but, when it came, I could 
scarce eat a mouthful — my tears choked me. 
I called for wine — I drank a pint and a half 
of red wine — and not till then had I dared to 
visit the church-yard, where my parents were 
interred. 

The cottage lay in my way — Margaret had 
chosen it for that very reason, to be near the 
church — for the old lady was regular in her 
attendance on public worship — I passed on — 
and in a moment found myself among the 
tombs. 

I had been present at my father's burial, 
and knew the spot again — my mother's funeral 
I was prevented by illness from attending — a 
plain stone was placed over the grave, with 
their initials carved upon it — for they both 
occupied one grave. 

I prostrated myself before the spot — I kissed 
the earth that covered them — I contemplated, 
with gloomy delight, the time when I should 
mingle my dust with theirs — and kneeled, 
with my arms incumbent on the grave-stone, 
in a kind of mental prayer — for I could not 
speak. 



\0 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



Having performed these duties, I arose with 
quieter feelings, and felt leisure to attend to 
indifferent objects. — Still I continued in the 
church-yard, reading the various inscriptions, 
and moralising on them with that kind of 
levity, which will not unfrequently spring up 
in the mind, in the midst of deep melancholy. 

I read of nothing but careful parents, loving 
husbands, and dutiful children. I said jest- 
ingly, where be all the bad people buried? 
Bad parents, bad husbands, bad children— what 
cemeteries are appointed for these ? — do they 
not sleep in consecrated ground ? or is it but a 
pious fiction, a generous oversight, in the sur- 
vivors, which thus tricks out men's epitaphs 
when dead, who, in their life-time, discharged 
the offices of life, perhaps, but lamely ? Their 
failings, with their reproaches, now sleep with 
them in the grave. Man wars not itith the dead. 
It is a trait of human nature, for which I 
love it. 

I had not observed, till now, a little group 
assembled at the other end of the church-yard ; 
it was a company of children, who were 
gathered round a young man, dressed in black, 
sitting on a grave-stone. 

He seemed to be asking them questions — 
probably, about their learning — and one little 
dirty ragged-headed fellow was clambering up 
his knees to kiss him. The children had been 
eating black cherries — for some of the stones 
were scattered about, and their mouths were 
smeared with them. 

As I drew near them, I thought I discerned 
in the stranger a mild benignity of countenance, 
which I had somewhere seen before — I gazed 
at him more attentively. 

It was Allan Clare ! sitting on the grave of 
his sister. 

I threw my arms about his neck. I ex- 
claimed " Allan " — he turned his eyes upon 
me — he knew me — we both wept aloud — it 
seemed as though the interval since we parted 
had been as nothing — I cried out, " Come, and 
tell me about these things." 

I drew him away from his little friends — he 
parted with a show of reluctance from the 
church-yard — Margaret and her grand-daughter 
lay buried there, as well as his sister — I took 
him to my inn — secured a room, where we 
might be private — ordered fresh wine — scarce 
knowing what I did, I danced for joy. • 



Allan was quite overcome, and taking me 
by the hand, he said, " This repays me for all." 

It was a proud day for me — I had found the 
friend I thought dead — earth seemed to me no 
longer valuable, than as it contained him ; and 
existence a blessing no longer than while I 
should live to be his comforter. 

I began, at leisure, to survey him with more 
attention. Time and grief had left few traces 
of that fine enthusiasm, which once burned in 
his countenance — his eyes had lost their 
original fire, but they retained an uncommon 
sweetness, and whenever they were turned 
upon me, their smile pierced to my heart. 

" Allan, I fear you have been a sufferer?" 
He replied not, and I could not press him 
further. I could not call the dead to life again. 

So we drank, and told old stories — and 
repeated old poetry — and sang old songs — as 
if nothing had happened. We sat till very 
late — I* forgot that I had purposed returning 
to town that evening — to Allan all places were 
alike — I grew noisy, he grew cheerful — Allan's 
old manners, old enthusiasm, were returning 
upon him — we laughed, we wept, we mingled 
our tears, and talked extravagantly. 

Allan was my chamber-fellow that night — 
and lay awake, planning schemes of living 
together under the same roof, entering upon 
similar pursuits, — and praising God, that we 
had met. 

I was obliged to return to town the next 
morning, and Allan proposed to accompany 
me. " Since the death of his sister," he told 
me, u he had been a wanderer." 

In the course of our walk he unbosomed 
himself without reserve — told me many par- 
ticulars of his way of life for the last nine or 
ten years, which I do not feel myself at liberty 
to divulge. 

Once, on my attempting to cheer him, when 
I perceived him over thoughtful, he replied to 
me in these words : 

"Do not regard me as unhappy when you 
catch me in these moods. I am never more 
happy than at times when, by the cast of my 
countenance, men judge me most miserable. 

" My friend, the events which have left this 
sadness behind them are of no recent date. 
The melancholy which comes over me with 
the recollection of them is not hurtful, but 
only tends to soften and tranquillise my mind, 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



a 



to detach me from the restlessness of human 
pursuits. 

" The stronger I feel this detachment, the 
more I find myself drawn heavenward to the 
contemplation of spiritual objects. 

" I love to keep old friendships alive and 
warm within me, because I expect a renewal 
of them in the World of Spirits. 

" I am a wandering and unconnected thing 
on the earth. I have made no new friendships, 
that can compensate me for the loss of the 
old — and the more I know mankind, the more 
does it become necessary for me to supply 
their loss by little images, recollections, and 
circumstances, of past pleasures. 

" I am sensible that I am surrounded by a 
multitude of very worthy people, plain-hearted 
souls, sincere and kind. But they have 
hitherto eluded my pursuit, and will continue 
to bless the little circle of their families and 
friends, while I must remain a stranger to them. 

" Kept at a distance by mankind, I have 
not ceased to love them — and could I find the 
cruel persecutor, the malignant instrument of 
God's judgments on me and mine, I think I 
would forgive, and try to love him too. 

" I have been a quiet sufferer. From the 
beginning of my calamities it was given to me, 
not to see the hand of man in them. I per- 
ceived a mighty arm, which none but myself 
could see, extended over me. I gave my 
heart to the Purifier, and my will to the Sove- 
reign Will of the Universe. The irresistible 
wheels of destiny passed on in their everlasting 
rotation, — and I suffered myself to be carried 
along with them without complaining." 



CHAPTER XII. 

Allan told me, that for some years past, 
feeling himself disengaged from every personal 
tie, but not alienated from human sympathies, 
it had been his taste, his humour he called it, 
to spend a great portion of his time in hospitals 
and lazar-houses. 

He had found a wayward pleasure, he refused 
to name it a virtue, in tending a description of 
people, who had long ceased to expect kindness 
or friendliness from mankind, but were content 
to accept the reluctant services, which the 
oftentimes unfeeling instruments and servants 



of these well-meant institutions deal out to the 
poor sick people under their care. 

It is not medicine, it is not broths and coarse 
meats, served up at a stated hour with all the 
hard formalities of a prison — it is not the 
scanty dole of a bed to die on — which dying 
man requires from his species. 

Looks, attentions, consolations, — in a word, 
sympathies, are what a man most needs in this 
awful close of mortal sufferings. A kind look, 
a smile, a drop of cold water to the parched lip — 
for these things a man shall bless you in death. 

And these better things than cordials did 
Allan love to administer— to stay by a bed-side 
the whole day, when something disgusting in a 
patient's distemper has kept the very nurses at 
a distance — to sit by, while the poor wretch got 
a little sleep — and be there to smile upon him 
when he awoke — to slip a guinea, now and then, 
into the hands of a nurse or attendant — these 
things have been to Allan as privileges, for which 
he was content to live ; choice marks, and cir- 
cumstances, of his Maker's goodness to him. 

And I do not know whether occupations of 
this kind be not a spring of purer and nobier 
delight (certainly instances of a more disin- 
terested virtue) than arises from what are 
called Friendships of Sentiment. 

Between two persons of liberal education, 
like opinions, and common feelings, oftentimes 
subsists a Variety of Sentiment, which dis- 
poses each to look upon the other as the only 
being in the universe worthy of friendship, or 
capable of understanding it, — themselves they 
consider as the solitary receptacles of all that 
is delicate in feeling, or stable in attachment : 
when the odds are, that under every green 
hill, and in every crowded street, people of 
equal worth are to be found, who do more 
good in their generation, and make less noise 
in the doing of it. 

It was in consequence of these benevolent 
propensities, I have been describing, that 
Allan oftentimes discovered considerable in- 
clinations in favour of my way of life, which I 
have before mentioned as being that of a sur- 
geon. He would frequently attend me on my 
visits to patients ; and I began to think, that 
he had serious intentions of making my pro- 
fession his study. 

He was present with me at a scene — a death- 
bed scene — I shudder when I do but think of it. 



18 



ROSAMUND GRAY. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

I was sent for the other morning to the 
assistance of a gentleman, who had been 
wounded in a duel, — and his wounds by un- 
skilful treatment had been brought to a dan- 
gerous crisis. 

The uncommonness of the name, which was 
Matravis, suggested to me, that this might 
possibly be no other than Allan's old enemy. 
Under this apprehension, I did what I could to 
dissuade Allan from accompanying me — but 
he seemed bent upon going, and even pleased 
himself with the notion, that it might lie within 
his ability to do the unhappy man some service. 
So he went with me. 

When we came to the house, which was in 
Soho-square, we discovered that it was indeed 
the man — the identical Matravis, who had 
done all that mischief in times past — but not 
in a condition to excite any other sensation 
than pity in a heart more hard than Allan's. 

Intense pain had brought on a delirium — we 
perceived this on first entering the room — for 



the wretched man was raving to himself — 
talking idly in mad unconnected sentences — 
that yet seemed, at times, to have a reference 
to past facts. 

One while he told us his dream. " He had 
lost his way on a great heath, to which there 
seemed no end — it was cold, cold, cold, — and 
dark, very dark — an old woman in leading- 
strings, blind, was groping about for a guide " 
— and then he frightened me,— for he seemed 
disposed to be jocular, and sang a song about 
a an old woman clothed in grey," and said " he 
did not believe in a devil." 

Presently he bid us " not tell Allan Clare." 
— Allan was hanging over him at that very 
moment, sobbing. — I could not resist the im- 
pulse, but cried out, " This is Allan Clare — 
Allan Clare is come to see you, my dear Sir." 
— The wretched man did not hear me, I believe, 
for he turned his head away, and began talking 
of charnel-houses, and dead men, and u whether 
they knew any thing that passed in their 
coffins." 

Matravis died that night. 



ESSAYS 



RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL. 



To comfort the desponding parent with the 
thought that, without diminishing the stock 
which is imperiously demanded to furnish the 
more pressing and homely wants of our nature, 
he has disposed of one or more perhaps out of 
a numerous offspring, under the shelter of a 
care scarce less tender than the paternal, where 
not only their bodily cravings shall be supplied, 
but that mental pabulum is also dispensed, 
which He hath declared to be no less neces- 
sary to our sustenance, who said, that, " not by 
bread alone man can live ; " for this Christ's 
Hospital unfolds her bounty. Here neither, 
on the one hand, are the youth lifted up above 
their family, which we must suppose liberal, 
though reduced ; nor on the other hand, are 
they liable to be depressed below its level by 
the mean habits and sentiments which a com- 
mon charity-school generates. It is, in a word, 
an Institution, to keep those who have yet held 
up their heads in the world from sinking ; to 
keep alive the spirit of a decent household, 
when poverty was in danger of crushing it ; to 
assist those who are the most willing, but not 
always the most able, to assist themselves ; to 
separate a child from his family for a season, 
in order to render him back hereafter, with 
feelings and habits more congenial to it, than 
he could even have attained by remaining at 
home in the bosom of it. It is a preserving and 
renovating principle, an antidote for the res 
angusta domi, when it presses, as it always does, 
most heavily upon the most ingenuous natures. 

This is Christ's Hospital ; and whether its 
character would be improved by confining its 
advantages to the very lowest of the people, 
let those judge who have witnessed the looks, 
the gestures, the behaviour, the manner of 



their play with one another, their deportment 
towards strangers, the whole aspect and physi- 
ognomy of that vast assemblage of boys on the 
London foundation, who freshen and make alive 
again with their sports the else mouldering 
cloisters of the old Grey Friars — which 
strangers who have never witnessed, if they 
pass through Newgate street, or by Smithfield, 
would do well to go a little out of their way 
to see. 

For the Christ's Hospital boy feels that he is 
no charity-boy ; he feels it in the antiquity 
and regality of the foundation to which he 
belongs ; in the usage which he meets with at 
school, and the treatment he is accustomed to 
out of its bounds ; in the respect and even 
kindness, which his well-known garb never 
fails to procure him in the streets of the metro- 
polis ; he feels it in his education, in that 
measure of classical attainments, which every 
individual at that school, though not destined 
to a learned profession, has it in his power to 
procure, attainments which it would be worse 
than folly to put it in the reach of the labour- 
ing classes to acquire : he feels it in the num- 
berless comforts, and even magnificences, which 
surround him ; in his old and awful cloisters, 
with their traditions ; in his spacious school- 
rooms, and in the well-ordered, airy, and lofty 
rooms where he sleeps ; in his stately dining- 
hall, hung round with pictures, by Verrio, 
Lely, and others, one of them surpassing in 
size and grandeur almost any other in the 
kingdom* ; above all, in the very extent and 

* By Verrio, representing James the Second on his 
throne, surrounded by his courtiers, (all curious por- 
traits,) receiving the mathematical pupils at their annual 
presentation : a custom still kept up on New-year's-day 
at Court. 

c 2 



20 



ESSAYS. 



magnitude of the body to which he belongs, 
and the consequent spirit, the intelligence, and 
public conscience, which is the result of so 
many various yet wonderfully combining mem- 
bers. Compared with this last-named advan- 
tage, what is the stock of information, (I do 
not here speak of book-learning, but of that 
knowledge which boy receives from boy,) the 
mass of collected opinions, the intelligence in 
common, among the few and narrow members 
of an ordinary boarding-school ? 

The Christ's Hospital or Blue-coat boy, has 
a distinctive character of his own, as far re- 
moved from the abject qualities of a common 
charity-boy as it is from the disgusting forward- 
ness of a lad brought up at some other of the 
public schools. There is pride in it, accumu- 
lated from the circumstances which I have 
described, as differencing him from the former ; 
and there is a restraining modesty from a sense 
of obligation and dependence, which must ever 
keep his' deportment from assimilating to that 
of the latter. His very garb, as it is antique 
and venerable, feeds his self-respect ; as it is a 
badge of dependence, it restrains the natural 
petulance of that age from breaking out into 
overt acts of insolence. This produces silence 
and a reserve before strangers, yet not that 
cowardly shyness which boys mewed up at 
home will feel ; he will speak up when spoken 
to, but the stranger must begin the conversa- 
tion with him. Within his bounds he is all fire 
and play; but in the streets he steals along 
with all the self-concentration of a young monk. 
He is never known to mix with other boys, 
they are a sort of laity to him. All this pro- 
ceeds, I have no doubt, from the continual 
consciousness which he carries about him of 
the difference of his dress from that of the rest 
of the world ; with a modest jealousy over him- 
self, lest, by over-hastily mixing with common 
and secular playfellows, he should commit the 
dignity of his cloth. Nor let any one laugh at 
this ; for, considering the propensity of the 
multitude, and especially of the small multi- 
tude, to ridicule anything unusual in dress 
— above all, where such peculiarity may be 
construed by malice into a mark of disparage- 
ment — this reserve will appear to be nothing 
more than a wise instinct in the Blue-coat boy. 
That it is neither pride nor rusticity, at least 
that it has none of the offensive qualities of 



either, a stranger may soon satisfy himself by 
putting a question to any of these boys : he 
may be sure of an answer couched in terms of 
plain civility, neither loquacious nor em- 
barrassed. Let him put the same question to 
a parish-boy, or to one of the trencher-caps in 

the cloisters, and the impudent reply of 

the one shall not fail to exasperate any more 
than the certain servility, and mercenary eye 
to reward, which he will meet with in the 
other, can fail to depress and sadden him. 

The Christ's Hospital boy is a religious cha- 
racter. His school is eminently a religious 
foundation ; it has its peculiar prayers, its ser- 
vices at set times, its graces, hymns, and an- 
thems, following each other in an almost monas- 
tic closeness of succession. This religious cha- 
racter in him is not always untinged with 
superstition. That is not wonderful, when we 
consider the thousand tales and traditions 
which must circulate, with undisturbed credu- 
lity, amongst so many boys, that have so few 
checks to their belief from any intercourse with 
the world at large ; upon whom their equals 
in age must work so much, their elders so little. 
"With this leaning towards an over-belief in 
matters of religion, which will soon correct 
itself when he comes out into society, may be 
classed a turn for romance above most other 
boys. This is to be traced in the same manner 
to their excess of society with each other, and 
defect of mingling with the world. Hence the 
peculiar avidity with which such books as the 
Arabian Nights' Entertainments, and others of 
a still wilder cast, are, or at least were in my 
time, nought for by the boys. I remember 
when some half-dozen of them set off from 
school, without map, card, or compass, on a 
serious expedition to find out Philip Quarffls 
Island. 

The Christ's Hospital boy's sense of right 
and wrong is peculiarly tender and apprehen- 
sive. It is even apt to run out into ceremonial 
observances, and to impose a yoke upon itself 
beyond the strict obligations of the moral law. 
Those who were contemporaries with me at 
that school thirty years ago, will remember 
with what more than Judaic rigour the eating 
of the fat of certain boiled meats * was inter- 
dicted. A boy would have blushed as at the 
exposure of some heinous immorality, to have 
* Under the denomination of gags. 



RECOLLECTIONS OE CHRIST'S HOSPITAL. 



21 



been detected eating that forbidden portion of 
his allowance of animal food, the whole of 
which, while he was in health, was little more 
than sufficient to allay his hunger. The same, 
or even greater, refinement was shown in the 
rejection of certain kinds of sweet-cake. What 
gave rise to these supererogatory penances, 
these self-denying ordinances, I could never 
learn;* they certainly argue no defect of the 
conscientious principle. A little excess in that 
article is not undesirable in youth, to make al- 
lowance for the inevitable waste which comes 
in maturer years. But in the less ambiguous 
line of duty, in those directions of the moral 
feelings which cannot be mistaken or depreci- 
ated, I will relate what took place in the year 
1785, when Mr. Perry, the steward, died. I 
must be pardoned for taking my instances 
from my own times. Indeed, the vividness of 
my recollections, while I am upon this subject, 
almost bring back those times ; they are 
present to me still. But I believe that in the 
years which have elapsed since the period 
which I speak of, the character of the Christ's 
Hospital boy is very little changed. Their 
situation in point of many comforts is im- 
proved ; but that which I ventured before to 
term the public conscience of the school, the per- 
vading moral sense, of which every mind par- 
takes and to which so many individual minds 
contribute, remains, I believe, pretty much the 
same as when I left it. I have seen, within 
this twelvemonth almost, the change which 
has been produced upon a boy of eight or nine 
years of age, upon being admitted into that 
school ; how, from a pert young coxcomb, who 
thought that all knowledge was comprehended 
within his shallow brains, because a smatter- 
ing of two or three languages and one or two 
sciences were stuffed into him by injudicious 
treatment at home, by a mixture with the 
wholesome society of so many schoolfellows, 
in less time than I have spoken of, he has sunk 
to his own level, and is contented to be carried 

* I am told that the late steward, [Mr. Hathaway] who 
evinced on many occasions a most praiseworthy anxiety 
to promote the comfort of the boys, had occasion for all his 
address and perseverance to eradicate the first of these un- 
fortunate prejudices, in which he at length happily suc- 
ceeded, and thereby restored to one half of the animal 
nutrition of the school those honours which painful super- 
stition and blind zeal had so long conspired to withhold 
from it. 



on in the quiet orbit of modest self-knowledge 
in which the common mass of that unpresump- 
tuous assemblage of boys seem to move : from 
being a little unfeeling mortal, he has got tc 
feel and reflect. Nor would it be a difficult 
matter to show how, at a school like this, where 
the boy is neither entirely separated from 
home, nor yet exclusively under its influence, 
the best feelings, the filial for instance, are 
brought to a maturity which they could not 
have attained under a completely domestic 
education ; how the relation of a parent is 
rendered less tender by unremitted association, 
and the very awfulness of age is best appre- 
hended by some sojourning amidst the compa- 
rative levity of youth ; how absence, not drawn 
out by too great extension into alienation or 
forgetfulness, puts an edge upon the relish of 
occasional intercourse, and the boy is made 
the better child by that which keeps the force 
of that relation from being felt as perpetually 
pressing on him ; how the substituted pater- 
nity, into the care of which he is adopted, 
while in everything substantial it makes up 
for the natural, in the necessary omission of 
individual fondnesses and partialities, directs 
the mind only the more strongly to appreciate 
that natural and first tie, in which such weak- 
nesses are the bond of strength, and the 
appetite which craves after them betrays no 
perverse palate. But these speculations rather 
belong to the question of the comparative 
advantages of a public over a private edu- 
cation in general. I must get back to my 
favourite school ; and to that which took place 
when our old and good steward died. 

And I will say, that when I think of the fre- 
quent instances which I have met with in 
children, of a hard-heartedness, a callousness, 
and insensibility to the loss of relations, even 
of those who have begot and nourished them, 
I cannot but consider it as a proof of some- 
thing in the peculiar conformation of that 
school, favourable to the expansion of the best 
feelings of our nature, that, at the period which 
I am noticing, out of five hundred boys there 
was not a dry eye to be found among them, 
nor a heart that did not beat with genuine 
emotion. Every impulse to play, until the 
funeral day was past, seemed su spended through- 
out the school ; and the boys, lately so mirthful 
and sprightly, were seen pacing their cloisters 



ESSAYS. 



alone, or in sad groups standing about, few of 
them without some token, such as their slender 
means could provide, a black riband or some- 
thing, to denote respect and a sense of their 
loss. The time itself was a time of anarchy, a 
time in which all authority (out of school hours) 
was abandoned. The ordinary restraints were 
for those days superseded ; and the gates, 
which at other times kept us in, were left 
without watchers. Yet, with the exception of 
one or two graceless boys at most, who took 
advantage of that suspension of authorities to 
skulk out, as it was called, the whole body of 
that great school kept rigorously within their 
bounds, by a voluntary self-imprisonment ; 
and they who broke bounds, though they 
escaped punishment from any master, fell into 
a general disrepute among us, and, for that 
which at any other time would have been 
applauded and admired as a mark of spirit, 
were consigned to infamy and reprobation ; so 
much natural government have gratitude and 
the principles of reverence and love, and so 
much did a respect to their dead friend prevail 
with these Christ's Hospital boys, above any 
fear which his presence among them when 
living could ever produce. And if the impres- 
sions which were made on my mind so long 
ago are to be trusted, very richly did their 
steward deserve this tribute. It is a pleasure 
to me even now to call to mind his portly form, 
the regal awe which he always contrived to 
inspire, in spite of a tenderness and even weak- 
ness of nature that would have enfeebled the 
reins of discipline in any other master ; a 
yearning of tenderness towards those under 
his protection, which could make five hundred 
boys at once feel towards him each as to their 
individual father. He had faults, with which 
we had nothing to do ; but, with all his faults, 
indeed, Mr. Perry was a most extraordinary 
creature. Contemporary with him, and still 
living, though he has long since resigned his 
occupation, will it be impertinent to mention 
the name of our excellent upper grammar- 
master, the Rev. James Boyer? He was a 
disciplinarian, indeed, of a different stamp from 
him whom I have just described ; but, now 
the terrors of the rod, and of a temper a little 
too hasty to leave the more nervous of us quite 
at our ease to do justice to his merits in those 
days, are long since over, ungrateful were we 



if we should refuse our testimony to that un- 
wearied assiduity with which he attended to 
the particular improvement of each of us. 
Had we been the offspring of the first gentry 
in the land, he could not have been instigated 
by the strongest views of recompense and 
reward to have made himself a greater slave to 
the most laborious of all occupations than he 
did for us sons of charity, from whom, or from 
our parents, he could expect nothing. He has 
had his reward in the satisfaction of having 
discharged his duty, in the pleasurable con- 
sciousness of having advanced the respecta- 
bility of that institution to which, both man 
and boy, he was attached ; in the honours to 
which so many of his pupils have successfully 
aspired at both our Universities ; and in the 
staff with which the Governors of the Hospital, 
at the close of his hard labours, with the high- 
est expressions of the obligations the school 
lay under to him, unanimously voted to present 
him. 

I have often considered it among the felici- 
ties of the constitution of this school, that the 
offices of steward and schoolmaster are kept 
distinct ; the strict business of education alone 
devolving upon the latter, while the former 
has the charge of all things out of school, the 
control of the provisions, the regulation of 
meals, of dress, of play, and the ordinary inter- 
course of the boys. By this division of manage- 
ment, a superior respectability must attach to 
the teacher while his office is unmixed with 
any of these lower concerns. A still greater 
advantage over the construction of common 
boarding-schools is to be found in the settled 
salaries of the masters, rendering them totally 
free of obligation to any individual pupil or his 
parents. This never fails to have its effect at 
schools where each boy can reckon up to a 
hair what profit the master derives from him, 
where he views him every day in the light of a 
caterer, a provider for the family, who is to get 
so much by him in each of his meals. Boys 
will see and consider these things ; and how 
much must the sacred character of preceptor 
suffer in their minds by these degrading as- 
sociations ! The very bill which the pupil 
carries home with him at Christmas, eked out, 
perhaps, with elaborate though necessary mi- 
nuteness, instructs him that his teachers have 
other ends than the mere love to learning, m 



RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL. 



23 



the lessons which they give him ; and though 
they put into his hands the fine sayings of 
Seneca or Epictetus, yet they themselves are 
none of those disinterested pedagogues to teach 
philosophy gratis. The master, too, is sensible 
that he is seen in this light ; and how much this 
must lessen that affectionate regard to the 
learners which alone can sweeten the bitter 
labour of instruction, and convert the whole 
business into unwelcome and uninteresting 
task-work, many preceptors that I have con- 
versed with on the subject are ready, with a 
sad heart, to acknowledge. From this incon- 
venience the settled salaries of the masters of 
this school in great measure exempt them ; 
while the happy custom of choosing masters 
(indeed every officer of the establishment) from 
those who have received their education there, 
gives them an interest in advancing the cha- 
racter of the school, and binds them to observe 
a tenderness and a respect to the children, in 
which a stranger, feeling that independence 
which I have spoken of, might well be expected 
to fail. 

In affectionate recollections of the place 
where he was bred up, in hearty recognitions 
of old schoolfellows met with again after the 
lapse of years, or in foreign countries, the 
Christ's Hospital boy yields to none ; I might 
almost say, he goes beyond most other boys. 
The very compass and magnitude of the school, 
its thousand bearings, the space it takes up in 
the imagination beyond the ordinary schools, 
impresses a remembrance, accompanied with 
an elevation of mind, that attends him through 
life. It is too big, too affecting an object, to 
pass away quickly from his mind. The Christ's 
Hospital boy's friends at school are commonly 
his intimates through life. For me, I do not 
know whether a constitutional imbecility does 
not incline me too obstinately to cling to the 
remembrances of childhood ; in an inverted 
ratio to the usual sentiments of mankind, 
nothing that I have been engaged in since seems 
of any value or importance, compared to the 
colours which imagination gave to everything 
then. I belong to no body corporate such as I 
then made a part of. — And here, before I close, 
taking leave of the general reader, and ad- 
dressing myself solely to my old school-fellows, 
that were contemporaries with me from the 
year 1782 to 1789, let me have leave to remember 



some of those circumstances of our school, 
which they will not be unwilling to have 
brought back to their minds. 

And first, let us remember, as first in import- 
ance in our childish eyes, the young men (as 
they almost were) who, under the denomination 
of Grecians, were waiting the expiration of the 
period when they should be sent, at the charges 
of the Hospital, to one or other of our univer- 
sities, but more frequently to Cambridge. 
These youths, from their superior acquirements, 
their superior age and stature, and the fewness 
of their numbers, (for seldom above two or 
three at a time were inaugurated into that high 
order), drew the eyes of all, and especially of the 
younger boys, info a reverent observance and 
admiration. How tall they used to seem to 
us ! how stately would they pace along the 
cloisters ! while the play of the lesser boys 
was absolutely suspended, or its boisterousness 
at least allayed, at their presence ! Not that 
they ever beat or struck the boys — that would 
have been to have demeaned themselves — 
the dignity of their persons alone insured them 
all respect. The task of blows, of corporal 
chastisement, they left to the common monitors, 
or heads of wards, who, it must be confessed, 
in our time had rather too much licence al- 
lowed them to oppress and misuse their infe- 
riors ; and the interference of the Grecian, who 
may be considered as the spiritual power, was 
not unfrequently called for, to mitigate by its 
mediation the heavy unrelenting arm of this tem- 
poral power, or monitor. In fine, the Grecians 
were the solemn Muftis of the school. ./Eras 
were computed from their time ; — it used to 
be said, such or such a thing was done when 
S or T was Grecian. 

As I ventured to call the Grecians, the 
Muftis of the school, the king's boys *, as their 
character then was, may well pass for the 
Janisaries. They were the terror of all the 
other boys ; bred up under that hardy sailor, as 
well as excellent mathematician, and co-navi- 
gator with Captain Cook, William Wales. All 
his systems were adapted to fit them for the 
rough element which they were destined to en- 
counter. Frequent and severe punishments, 
which were expected to be borne with more 
than Spartan fortitude, came to be considered 
* The mathematical pupils, hred up to the sea, on the 
foundation of Charles the Second. 



24 



ESSAYS. 



less as inflictions of disgrace than as trials of 
obstinate endurance. To make his boys hardy, 
and to give them early sailor-habits, seemed to 
be his only aim ; to this every thing was sub- 
ordinate. Moral obliquities, indeed, were sure 
of receiving their full recompense, for no oc- 
casion of laying on the lash was ever let slip ; 
but the effects expected to be produced from 
it were something very different from contri- 
tion or mortification. There was in William 
Wales a perpetual fund of humour, a constant 
glee about him, which heightened by an invete- 
rate provincialism of north-country dialect, 
absolutely took away the sting from his seve- 
rities. His punishments were agame at patience, 
in which the master was not always worst con- 
tented when he found himself at times over- 
come by his pupil. What success this discipline 
had, or how the effects of it operated upon the 
after-lives of these king's boys, I cannot say : 
but I am sure that, for the time, they were 
absolute nuisances to the rest of the school, 
Hardy, brutal, and often wicked, they were 
the most graceless lump in the whole mass ; 
older and bigger than the other boys, (for, by the 
system of their education they were kept longer 
at school by two or three years than any of the 
rest, except the Grecians), they were a constant 
terror to the younger part of the school ; and 
some who may read this, I doubt not, will re- 
member the consternation into which the juve- 
nile fry of us were thrown, when the cry was 
raised in the cloisters, that the First Order was 
coming — for so they termed the first form or class 
of those boys. Still these sea-boys answered 
some good purposes, in the school. They were 
the military class among the boys, foremost 
in athletic exercises, who extended the fame 
of the prowess of the school far and near ; 
and the apprentices in the vicinage, and 
sometimes the butchers' boys in the neigh- 
bouring market, had sad occasion to attest 
their valour. 

The time would fail me if I were to attempt to 
enumerate all those circumstances, some plea- 
sant, some attended with some pain, which, seen 
through the mist of distance, come sweetly 
softened to the memory. But I must crave 
leave to remember our transcendingsuperiority 
in those invigorating sports, leap-frog, and 
basting the bear ; our delightful excursions 
in the summer holidays to the New River, 



near Newington, where, like otters, we would 
live the long day in the water, never caring for 
dressing ourselves, when we had once stripped ; . 
our savoury meals afterwards, when we came 
home almost famished with staying out all day 
without our dinners ; our visits at other times 
to the Tower, where, by ancient privilege, we 
had free access to all the curiosities ; our 
solemn processions through the City at Easter, 
with the Lord Mayor's largess of buns, wine, 
and a shilling, with the festive questions and 
civic pleasantries of the dispensing Aldermen, 
which were more to us than all the rest of the 
banquet ; our stately suppings in public, where 
the well-lighted hall, and the confluence of 
well-dressed company who came to see us, 
made the whole look more like a concert or 
assembly, than a scene of a plain bread and 
cheese collation ; the annual orations upon 
St. Matthew's day, in which the senior scholar, 
before he had done, seldom failed to reckon up, 
among those who had done honour to our school 
by being educated in it, the names of those ac- 
complished critics and Greek scholars, Joshua 
Barnes and Jeremiah Markland (I marvel they 
left out Camden while they were about it). Let 
me have leave to remember our hymns and an- 
thems, and well-toned organ ; the doleful tune 
of the burial anthem chaunted in the solemn 
cloisters, upon the seldom-occurring funeral of 
some school-fellow ; the festivities at Christmas, 
when the richest of us would club our stock to 
have a gaudy day, sitting round the fire, re- 
plenished to the height with logs, and the 
pennyless,and he that could contribute nothing, 
partook in all the mirth, and in some of the 
substantialities of the feasting ; the carol sung 
by night at that time of the year, which, when 
a young boy, I have so often lain awake to 
hear from seven (the hour of going to bed) till 
ten, when it was sung by the older boys and 
monitors, and have listened to it, in their rude 
chanting, till I have been transported in fancy 
to the fields of Bethlehem, and the song which 
was sung at that season, by angels' voices to 
the shepherds. 

Nor would I willingly forget any of those 
things which administered to our vanity. The 
hem-stitched bands and town-made shirts, which 
some of the most fashionable among us wore ; 
the town-girdles, with buckles of silver, or 
shining stone ; the badges of the sea-boys ; the 



ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE. 



25 



cots, or superior shoe-strings, of the monitors ; 
the medals of the markers ; (those who were 
appointed to hear the Bible read in the wards 
on Sunday morning and evening,) which bore 
on their obverse in silver, as certain parts of 
our garments carried, in meaner metal, the 
countenance of our Founder, that godly and 
royal child, King Edward the Sixth, the 
flower of the Tudor name— the young flower 
that was untimely cropt, as it began to fill our 
land with its early odours — the boy-patron of 
boys — the serious and holy child who walked 
with Cranmer and Ridley — fit associate,in those 



tender years, for the bishops, and future mar- 
tyrs of our Church, to receive, or, (as occasion 
sometimes proved,) to give instruction 

" But, ah ! what means the silent tear ? 

Why, e'en 'mid joy, my bosom heave ? 
Ye long-lost scenes, enchantments dear ! 

Lo ! now I linger o'er your grave. 

— Fly, then, ye hours of rosy hue, 
And hear away the bloom of years ! 

And quick succeed, ye sickly crew 

Of doubts and sorrows, pains and fears ! 

Still will I ponder Fate's unaltered plan, 

Nor, tracing back the child, forget that I am man *. * 



ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE, 

CONSIDERED WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR FITNESS FOR STAGE-REPRESENTATION. 



Taking a turn the other day in the Abbey, 
I was struck with the affected attitude of a 
figure, which I do not remember to have seen 
before, and which upon examination proved to 
be a whole-length of the celebrated Mr. 
Garrick. Though I would not go so far with 
some good catholics abroad as to shut players 
altogether out of consecrated ground, yet I 
own I was not a little scandalised at the intro- 
duction of theatrical airs and gestures into a 
place set apart to remind us of the saddest 
realities. Going nearer, I found inscribed under 
this harlequin figure the following lines : — 

To paint fair Nature, by divine command, 
Her magic pencil in his glowing hand, 
A Shakspeare rose ; then, to expand his fame 
Wide o'er this breathing world, a Garrick came. 
Though sunk in death the forms the Poet drew, 
The Actor's genius bade them breathe anew ; 
Though, like the bard himself, in night they lay, 
Immortal Garrick called them back to day : 
And till Eternity with power sublime 
Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary Time, 
Shakspeare and Garrick like twin-stars shall shine, 
And earth irradiate with a beam divine. 

It would be an insult to my readers' under- 
standings to attempt anything like a criticism 
on this farrago of false thoughts and nonsense. 
But the reflection it led me into was a kind of 
wonder, how, from the days of the actor here 
celebrated to our own, it should have been the 
fashion to compliment every performer in his 



turn, that has had the luck to please the Town 
in any of the great characters of Shakspeare, 
with the notion of possessing a mind congenial 
with the poet's : how people should come thus 
unaccountably to confound the power of origi- 
nating poetical images and conceptions with 
the faculty of being able to read or recite the 
same when put into wordsf ; or what con- 
nection that absolute mastery over the heart 
and soul of man, which a great dramatic poet 
possesses, has with those low tricks upon the 
eye and ear, which a player by observing a few 
general effects, which some common passion, 
as grief, anger, &c. usually has upon the ges- 
tures and exterior, can so easily compass. To 
know the internal workings and movements of 
a great mind, of an Othello or a Hamlet for 
instance, the when and the ichy and the how far 
they should be moved ; to what pitch a passion 
is becoming ; to give the reins and to pull in 
the curb exactly at the moment when the 

* Lines meditated in the cloisters of Christ's Hospital, in 
the " Poetics " of Mr. George Dyer. 

t It is observable that we fall into this confusion only in 
dramatic recitations. We never dream that the gentleman 
who reads Lucretius in public with great applause, is 
therefore a great poet and philosopher ; nor do we find 
that Tom Davis, the bookseller, who is recorded to have 
recited the Paradise Lost better than any man in England 
in his day (though I cannot help thinking there must be 
some mistake in this tradition) was therefore, by his 
intimate friends, set upon a level with Milton. 



2(5 



ESSAYS. 



drawing in or the slackening is most graceful ; 
seems to demand a reach of intellect of a 
vastly different extent from that -which is 
employed upon the bare imitation of the signs 
of these passions in the countenance or gesture, 
which signs are usually observed to be most 
lively and emphatic in the weaker sort of 
minds, and which signs can after all but in- 
dicate some passion, as I said before, anger, 
or grief, generally ; but of the motives and 
grounds of the passion, wherein it differs from 
the same passion in low and vulgar natures, of 
these the actor can give no more idea by his 
face or gesture than the eye (without a meta- 
phor) can speak, or the muscles utter intel- 
ligible sounds. But such is the instantaneous 
nature of the impressions which we take in at 
the eye and ear at a play-house, compared with 
the slow apprehension oftentimes of the under- 
standing in reading, that we are apt not only 
to sink the play-writer in the consideration 
which we pay to the actor, but even to identify 
in our minds, in a perverse manner, the actor 
with the character which he represents. It is 
difficult for a frequent play-goer to disem- 
barrass the idea of Hamlet from the person 
and voice of Mr. K. We speak of Lady 
Macbeth, while we are in reality thinking of 
Mrs. S. Nor is this confusion incidental alone 
to unlettered persons, who, not possessing the 
advantage of reading, are necessarily de- 
pendent upon the stage-player for all the 
pleasure which they can receive from the 
drama, and to whom the very idea of what an 
author is cannot be made comprehensible with- 
out some pain and perplexity of mind : the 
error is one from which persons otherwise not 
meanly lettered, find it almost impossible to 
extricate themselves. 

Never let me be so ungrateful as to forget 
the very high degree of satisfaction which I 
received some years back from seeing for the 
first time a tragedy of Shakspeare performed, 
in which those two great performers sustained 
the principal parts. It seemed to embody and 
realise conceptions which had hitherto as- 
sumed no distinct shape. But dearly do we 
pay all our life after for this juvenile pleasure, 
this sense of distinctness. When the novelty 
is past, we find to our cost that instead of 
realising an idea, we have only materialised 
and brought down a fine vision to the standard 



of flesh and blood. We have let go a dream, 
in quest of an unattainable substance. 

How cruelly this operates upon the mind, to 
have its free conceptions thus cramped and 
pressed down to the measure of a strait-lacing 
actuality, may be judged from that delightful 
sensation of freshness, with which we turn to 
those plays of Shakspeare which have escaped 
being performed, and to those passages in the 
acting plays of the same writer which have 
happily been left out in the performance. How 
far the very custom of hearing anything spouted, 
withers and blows upon a fine passage, may be 
seen in those speeches from Henry the Fifth, 
&c. which are current in the mouths of school- 
boys, from their being to be found in Enfield's 
Speaker, and such kind of books ! I confess 
myself utterly unable to appreciate that cele- 
brated soliloquy in Hamlet, beginning " To be 
or not to be," or to tell whether it be good, bad 
or indifferent, it has been so handled and 
pawed about by declamatory boys and men, 
and torn so inhumanly from its living place 
and principle of continuity in the play, till it is 
become to me a perfect dead member. 

It may seem a paradox, but I cannot help 
being of opinion that the plays of Shakspeare 
are less calculated for performance on a stage, 
than those of almost any other dramatist what- 
ever. Their distinguishing excellence is a 
reason that they should be so. There is so 
much in them, which comes not under the pro- 
vince of acting, with which eye, and tone, and 
gesture, have nothing to do. 

The glory of the scenic art is to personate 
passion, and the turns of passion ; and the 
more coarse and palpable the passion is, the 
more hold upon the eyes and ears of the spec- 
tators the performer obviously possesses. For 
this reason, scolding scenes, scenes where two 
persons talk themselves into a fit of fury, and 
then in a surprising manner talk themselves 
out of it again, have always been the most 
popular upon our stage. And the reason is 
plain, because the spectators are here most 
palpably appealed to, they are the proper 
judges in this war of words, they are the legiti- 
mate ring that should be formed round such 
"intellectual prize-fighters." Talking is the 
direct object of the imitation here. But in all 
the best dramas, and in Shakspeare above all 
how obvious it is, that the form of speaking, 



ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE. 



27 



whether it be in soliloquy or dialogue, is only 
a medium, and often a highly artificial one, for 
putting the reader or spectator into possession 
of that knowledge of the inner structure and 
workings of mind in a character, which he could 
otherwise never have arrived at in that form of 
composition by any gift short of intuition. We 
do here as we do with novels written in the 
epistolary form. How many improprieties, per- 
fect solecisms in letter- writing, do we put up 
with in Clarissa and other books, for the sake 
of the delight which that form upon the whole 
gives us ! 

But the practice of stage representation re- 
duces everything to a controversy of elocution. 
Every character, from the boisterous blasphem- 
ings of Bajazet to the shrinking timidity of 
womanhood, must play the orator. The love- 
dialogues of Romeo and Juliet, those silver- 
sweet sounds of lovers' tongues by night ! the 
more intimate and sacred sweetness of nuptial 
colloquy between an Othello or a Posthumus 
with their married wives, all those delicacies 
which are so delightful in the reading, as 
when we read of those youthful dalliances in 
Paradise — 

As beseem'd 

Fair couple link'd in happy nuptial league, 
Alone ; 

by the inherent fault of stage representation, 
how are these things sullied and turned from 
their very nature by being exposed to a large 
assembly ; when such speeches as Imogen ad- 
dresses to her lord, come drawling out of the 
mouth of a hired actress, whose courtship, 
though nominally addressed to the personated 
Posthumus, is manifestly aimed at the specta- 
tors, who are to judge of her endearments and 
her returns of love ! 

The character of Hamlet is perhaps that by 
which, since the days of Betterton, a succession 
of popular performers have had the greatest 
ambition to distinguish themselves. The length 
of the part may be one of their reasons. But 
for the character itself, we find it in a play, 
and therefore Ave judge it a fit subject of 
dramatic representation. The play itself 
abounds in maxims and reflections beyond 
any other, and therefore we consider it as a 
proper vehicle for conveying moral instruction. 
But Hamlet himself — what does he suffer 
meanwhile by being dragged forth as the 



public schoolmaster, to give lectures to the 
crowd ! Why, nine parts in ten of what 
Hamlet does, are transactions between himself 
and his moral sense, they are the effusions of 
his solitary musings, which he retires to holes 
and corners and the most sequestered parts of 
the palace to pour forth ; or rather, they are 
the silent meditations with which his bosom is 
bursting, reduced to words for the sake of the 
reader, who must else remain ignorant of what 
is passing there. These profound sorrows, 
these light-and-noise-abhorring ruminations, 
which the tongue scarce dares utter to deaf 
walls and chambers, how can they be repre- 
sented by a gesticulating actor, who comes and 
mouths them out before an audience, making 
four hundred people his confidants at once ! I 
say not that it is the fault of the actor so to 
do ; he must pronounce them ore rotundo, he 
must accompany them with his eye, he must 
insinuate them into his auditory by some trick 
of eye, tone, or gesture, or he fails. He must 
be thinking all the xehile of his appearance, because he 
knows that all the tchile the sp>ectators are judging of 
it. And this is the way to represent the shy, 
negligent, retiring Hamlet I 

It is true that there is no other mode of con- 
veying a vast quantity of thought and feeling 
to a great portion of the audience, who other- 
wise would never earn it for themselves by 
reading, and the intellectual acquisition gained 
this way may, for aught I know, be inestimable ; 
but I am not arguing that Hamlet should not 
be acted, but how much Hamlet is made 
another thing by being acted. I have heard 
much of the Avonders Avhich Garrick performed 
in this part ; but as I never saAv him, I must 
have leave to doubt Avliether the representation 
of such a character came Avithin the province 
of his art. Those Avho tell me of him, speak 
of his eye, of the magic of his eye, and of his 
commanding voice : physical properties, vastly 
desirable in an actor, and without Avhich he 
can never insinuate meaning into an auditory, 
— but Avhat have they to do with Hamlet ; what 
have they to do Avith intellect ? In fact, the 
things aimed at in theatrical representation, 
are to arrest the spectator's eye upon the form 
and the gesture, and so to gain a more favour- 
able hearing to Avhat is spoken : it is not Avhat 
the character is, but Iioav he looks ; not Avhat 
he says, but how he speaks it. I see no reason 



28 



ESSAYS. 



to think that if the play of Hamlet were 
written over again by some such writer as 
Banks or Lillo, retaining the process of the 
story, but totally omitting all the poetry of it, 
all the divine features of Shakspeare, his stu- 
pendous intellect ; and only taking care to 
give us enough of passionate dialogue, which 
Banks or Lillo were never at a loss to furnish ; 
I see not how the effect could be much dif- 
ferent upon an audience, nor how the actor 
has it in his power to represent Shakspeare to 
us differently from his representation of Banks 
or Lillo. Hamlet would still be a youthful 
accomplished prince, and must be gracefully 
personated ; he might be puzzled in his mind, 
wavering in his conduct, seemingly cruel to 
Ophelia ; he might see a ghost, and start at it, 
and address it kindly when he found it to be his 
father ; all this in the poorest and most homely 
language of the ser vilest creeper after nature 
that ever consulted the palate of an audience ; 
without troubling Shakspeare for the matter : 
and I see not but there would be room for all 
the power which an actor has, to display itself. 
All the passions and changes of passion might 
remain : for those are much less difficult to 
write or act than is thought ; it is a trick easy 
to be attained, it is but rising or falling a note 
or two in the voice, a whisper with a significant 
foreboding look to announce its approach, and 
so contagious the counterfeit appearance of 
any emotion is, that let the words be what 
they will, the look and tone shall carry it off 
and make it pass for deep skill in the passions. 
It is common for people to talk of Shaks- 
peare's plays being so natural ; that everybody 
can understand him. They are natural indeed, 
they are grounded deep in nature, so deep that 
the depth of them lies out of the reach of most 
of us. You shall hear the same persons say 
that George Barnwell is very natural, and 
Othello is very natural, that they are both very 
deep ; and to them they are the same kind of 
thing. At the one they sit and shed tears, 
because a good sort of young man is tempted 
by a naughty woman to commit a trifling pecca- 
dillo, the murder of an uncle or so*, that is all, 

* If this note could hope to meet the eye of any of the 
Managers, I woUd entreat and heg of them, in the name 
of both the Galleries, that this insult upon the morality of 
the common people of London should cease to be eternally 
repeated in the holiday weeks. Why are the 'Prentices of 



and so comes to an untimely end, which is so 
moving ; and at the other, because a blackamoor 
in a fit of jealousy kills his innocent white 
wife : and the odds are that ninety-nine out of 
a hundred would willingly behold the same 
catastrophe happen to both the heroes, and 
have thought the rope more due to Othello 
than to Barnwell. For of the texture of 
Othello's mind, the inward construction mar- 
vellously laid open with all its strengths and 
weaknesses, its heroic confidences and its 
human misgivings, its agonies of hate springing 
from the depths of love, they see no more than 
the spectators at a cheaper rate, who pay their 
pennies a-piece to look through the man's 
telescope in Leicester-fields, see into the 
inward plot and topography of the moon. 
Some dim thing or other they see, they see an 
actor personating a passion, of grief, or anger, 
for instance, and they recognise it as a copy 
of the usual external effects of such passions ; 
or at least as being true to that symbol of the 
emotion which passes current at the theatre for it, for 
it is often no more than that : but of the grounds 
of the passion, its correspondence to a great or 
heroic nature, which is the only worthy object 
of tragedy, — that common auditors know any- 
thing of this, or can have any such notions 
dinned into them by the mere strength of an 
actor's lungs, — that apprehensions foreign to 
them should be thus infused into them by 
storm, I can neither believe, nor understand 
how it can be possible. 

"We talk of Shakspeare's admirable obser- 
vation of life, when we should feel, that not 
from a petty inquisition into those cheap and 
every-day characters which surrounded him, 
as they surround us, but from his own mind, 
which was, to borrow a phrase of Ben Jonson's, 
the very " sphere of humanity," he fetched 
those images of virtue and of knowledge, of 

this famous and well-governed city, instead of an amuse- 
ment, to be treated over and over again with a nauseous 
sermon of George Barnwell ? Why at the end of their 
vistas are we to place the gallows ? Were I an uncle, 
I should not much like a nephew of mine to have 
such an example placed before his eyes. It is really 
making uncle-murder too trivial to exhibit it as done upon 
such slight motives ;— it is attributing too much to such 
characters as Millwood :— it is putting things into the 
heads of good young men, which they would never other- 
wise have dreamed of. Uncles that think anything of their 
lives, should fairly petition the Chamberlain against it. 



ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE. 



29 



which every one of us recognising a part, think 
we comprehend in our natures the whole ; and 
oftentimes mistake the powers which he posi- 
tively creates in us, for nothing more than 
indigenous faculties of our own minds, which 
only waited the application of corresponding 
virtues in him to return a full and clear echo 
of the same. 

To return to Hamlet. — Among the distin- 
guishing features of that wonderful character, 
one of the most interesting (yet painful) is that 
soreness of mind which makes him treat the 
intrusions of Polonius with harshness, and that 
asperity which he puts on in his interviews 
with Ophelia. These tokens of an unhinged 
mind (if they be not mixed in the latter case 
with a profound artifice of love, to alienate 
Ophelia by affected discourtesies, so to prepare 
her mind for the breaking off of that loving 
intercourse, which can no longer find a place 
amidst business so serious as that which he 
has to do) are parts of his character, which to 
reconcile with our admiration of Hamlet, the 
most patient consideration of his situation is 
no more than necessary ; they are what we 
forgive afterwards, and explain by the whole of 
his character, but at the time they are harsh and 
unpleasant. Yet such is the actor's necessity 
of giving strong blows to the audience, that I 
have never seen a player in this character, 
who did not exaggerate and strain to the 
utmost these ambiguous features, — these tem- 
porary deformities in the character. They 
make him express a vulgar scorn at Polonius 
which utterly degrades his gentility, and which 
no explanation can render palatable; they 
make him shew contempt, and curl up the 
nose at Ophelia's father, — contempt in its very 
grossest and most hateful form ; but they get 
applause by it : it is natural, people say ; that 
is, the words are scornful, and the actor ex- 
presses scorn, and that they can judge of : but 
why so much scorn, and of that sort, they never 
think of asking. 

So to Ophelia.— All the Hamlets that I have 
ever seen, rant and rave at her as if she had 
committed some great crime, and the audience 
are highly pleased, because the words of the 
part are satirical, and they are enforced by 
the strongest expression of satirical indignation 
of which the face and voice are capable. But 
then, whether Hamlet is likely to have put on 



such brutal appearances to a lady whom he 
loved so dearly, is never thought on. The 
truth is, that in all such deep affections as had 
subsisted between Hamlet and Ophelia, there 
is a stock of supererogatory luve y (\fl may venture 
to use the expression,) which in any great grief 
of heart, especially wnere that which preys 
upon the mind cannot be communicated, 
confers a kind of indulgence upon the grieved 
party to express itself, even to its heart's 
dearest object, in the language of a temporary 
alienation ; but it is not alienation, it is a dis- 
traction purely, and so it always makes itself 
to be felt by that object : it is not anger, but 
grief assuming the appearance of anger, — love 
awkwardly counterfeiting hate, as sweet coun- 
tenances when they try to frown : but such 
sternness and fierce disgust as Hamlet is made 
to shew, is no counterfeit, but the real face of 
absolute aversion, — of irreconfcileable aliena- 
tion. It may be said he puts on the madman ; 
but then he should only so far put on this 
counterfeit lunacy as his own real distraction 
will give him leave ; that is, incompletely, im- 
perfectly ; not in that confirmed, practised way, 
like a master of his art, or as Dame Quickly 
would say, " like one of those harlotry players." 
I mean no disrespect to any actor, but the 
sort of pleasure which Shakspeare's plays give 
in the acting seems to me not at all to differ 
from that which the audience receive from 
those of other writers ; and, they being in them- 
selves essentially so different from all others, I must 
conclude that there is something in the nature 
of acting which levels all distinctions. And 
in fact, who does not speak indifferently of the 
Gamester and of Macbeth as fine stage per- 
formances, and praise the Mrs. Beverley in the 
same way as the Lady Macbeth of Mrs. S. ? 
Belvidera, and Calista, and Isabella, and Eu- 
phrasia, are they less liked than Imogen, or 
than Juliet, or than Desdemona? Are they 
not spoken of and remembered in the same 
way ? Is not the female performer as great 
(as they call it) in one as in the other? Did 
not Garrick shine, and was he not ambitious 
of shining, in every drawling tragedy that his 
wretched day produced, — the productions of 
the Hills and the Murphys and the Browns, — 
and shall he ha\ e that honour to dwell in our 
minds for ever as an inseparable concomitant 
with Shakspeare ? A kindred mind ! O who 



30 



ESSAYS. 



can read that affecting sonnet of Shakspeare 
which alludes to his profession as a player : — 
Oh for my sake do you with Fortune chide, 
The guilty goddess of my harmless deeds, 
That did not better for my life provide 
Than public means which public custom breeds— 
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand ; 
And almost thence my nature is subdued 
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand 

Or that other confession : — 
Alas ! 'tis true, I have gone here and there, 
And made myself a motley to thy view, 
Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear — 

Who can read these instances of jealous self- 
watchfulness in our sweet Shakspeare, and 
dream of any congeniality between him and one 
that, by every tradition of him, appears to have 
been as mere a player as ever existed ; to have 
had his mind tainted with the lowest players' 
vices, — envy and jealousy, and miserable 
cravings after applause ; one who in the ex- 
ercise of his profession was jealous even of the 
women-performers that stood in his way ; a 
manager full of managerial tricks and strata- 
gems and finesse ; that any resemblance should 
be dreamed of between him and Shakspeare, 
— Shakspeare who, in the plenitude and con- 
sciousness of his own powers, could with that 
noble modesty, which we can neither imitate 
nor appreciate, express himself thus of his own 
sense of his own defects : — 

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 

Featured like him, like him with friends possest ; 

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope. 

I am almost disposed to deny to Garrick the 
merit of being an admirer of Shakspeare. 
A true lover of his excellences he certainly 
was not ; for would any true lover of them 
have admitted into his matchless scenes such 
ribald trash as Tate and Cibber, and the rest 
of them, that 

With their darkness durst affront his light, 
have foisted into the acting plays of Shaks- 
peare ? I believe it impossible that he could 
have had a proper reverence for Shakspeare, 
and have condescended to go through that in- 
terpolated scene in Richard the Third, in which 
Richard tries to break his wife's heart by telling 
her he loves another woman, and says, " if she 
survives this she is immortal." Yet I doubt 
not he delivered this vulgar stuff with as much 
anxiety of emphasis as any of the genuine 



parts : and for acting, it is as well calculated 
as any. But we have seen the part of Richard 
lately produce great fame to an actor by his 
manner of playing it, and it lets us into the 
secret of acting, and of popular judgments of 
Shakspeare derived from acting. Not one of 
the spectators who have witnessed Mr. C.'s 
exertions in that part, but has come away with 
a proper conviction that Richard is a very 
wicked man, and kills little children in their 
beds, with something like the pleasure which 
the giants and ogres in children's books are 
represented to have taken in that practice ; 
moreover, that he is very close and shrewd 
and devilish cunning, for you could see that 
by his eye. 

But is, in fact, this the impression we have 
in reading the Richard of Shakspeare? Do 
we feel anything like disgust, as we do at that 
butcher-like representation of him that passes 
for him on the stage ? A horror at his crimes 
blends with the effect which we feel, but how 
is it qualified, how is it carried off, by the rich 
intellect which he displays, his resources, his 
wit, his buoyant spirits, his vast knowledge 
and insight into characters, the poetry of his 
part, — not an atom of all which is made per- 
ceivable in Mr. C.'s way of acting it. Nothing 
but his crimes, his actions, is visible ; they 
are prominent and staring; the murderer 
stands out, but where is the lofty genius, the 
man of vast capacity, — the profound, the witty, 
accomplished Richard ? 

The truth is, the Characters of Shakspeare 
are so much the objects of meditation rather 
than of interest or curiosity as to their actions, 
that while we are reading any of his great 
criminal characters, — Macbeth, Richard, even 
Iago, — we think not so much of the crimes 
which they commit, as of the ambition, the 
aspiring spirit, the intellectual activity, which 
prompts them to overleap these moral fences. 
Barnwell is a wretched murderer ; there is a 
certain fitness between his neck and the rope; 
he is the legitimate heir to the gallows ; nobody 
who thinks at all can think of any alleviating 
circumstances in his case to make him a fifi 
object of mercy. Or to take an instance from 
the higher tragedy, what else but a mere 
assassin is Glenalvon ! Do we think of any- 
thing but of the crime which he commits, and 
the rack which he deserves ? That is all which 



ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE. 



31 



we really think about him. Whereas in cor- 
responding characters in Shakspeare, so little 
do the actions comparatively affect us, that 
while the impulses, the inner mind in all its 
perverted greatness, solely seems real and is 
exclusively attended to, the crime is compara- 
tively nothing. But when we see these things 
represented, the acts which they do are com- 
paratively everything, their impulses nothing. 
The state of sublime emotion into which we are 
elevated by those images of night and horror 
which Macbeth is made to utter, that solemn 
prelude with which he entertains the time till 
the bell shall strike which is to call him to mur- 
der Duncan, — when we no longer read it in a 
book, when we have given up that vantage 
ground of abstraction which reading possesses 
over seeing, and come to see a man in his bodily 
shape before our eyes actually preparing to 
commit a murder, if the acting be true and im- 
pressive, as I have witnessed it in Mr. K.'s per- 
formance of that part, the painful anxiety about 
the act, the natural longing to prevent it while it 
yet seems unperpetrated, the too close pressing 
semblance of reality, give a pain and an un- 
easiness which totally destroy all the delight 
which the words in the book convey, where 
the deed doing never presses upon us with the 
painful sense of presence : it rather seems to 
belong to history, — to something past and 
inevitable, if it has anything to do with time 
at all. The sublime images, the poetry alone, 
is that which is present to our minds in the 
reading. 

So to see Lear acted, — to see an old man 
tottering about the stage with a walking-stick, 
turned out of doors by his daughters in a rainy 
night, has nothing in it but what is painful and 
disgusting. We want to take him into shelter 
and relieve him. That is all the feeling which 
the acting of Lear ever produced in me. But 
the Lear of Shakspeare cannot be acted. The 
contemptible machinery by which they mimic 
the storm which he goes out in, is not more 
inadequate to represent the horrors of the real 
elements, than any actor can be to represent 
Lear ; they might more easily propose to per- 
sonate the Satan of Milton upon a stage, or 
one of Michael Angelo's terrible figures. The 
greatness of Lear is not in corporal dimension, 
but in intellectual : the explosions of his 
passion are terrible as a volcano : they are 



storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom 
that sea, his mind, with all its vast riches. It 
is his mind which is laid bare. This case of 
flesh and blood seems too insignificant to be 
thought on ; even as he himself neglects it. 
On the stage we see nothing but corporal in- 
firmities and weakness, the impotence of rage ; 
while we read it, we see not Lear, but we are 
Lear, — we are in his mind, we are sustained 
by a grandeur which baffles the malice of 
daughters and storms ; in the aberrations of 
his reason, we discover a mighty irregular 
power of reasoning, immethodised from the 
ordinary purposes of life, but exerting its 
powers, as the wind blows where it listeth, at 
will upon the corruptions and abuses of man- 
kind. What have looks, or tones, to do with 
that sublime identification of his age with that 
of the heavens themselves, when, in his reproaches 
to them for conniving at the injustice of his 
children, he reminds them that " they them- 
selves are old ? " What gesture shall we ap- 
propriate to this ? What has the voice or the 
eye to do with such things ? But the play is 
beyond all art, as the tamperings with it shew : 
it is too hard and stony ; it must have love- 
scenes, and a happy ending. It is not enough 
that Cordelia is a daughter, she must shine as 
a lover too. Tate has put his hook in the 
nostrils of this Leviathan, for Garrick and his 
followers, the show-men of the scene, to draw 
the mighty beast about more easily. A happy 
ending ! — as if the living martyrdom that Lear 
had gone through, — the flaying of his feelings 
alive, did not make a fair dismissal from the 
stage of life the only decorous thing for him. 
If he is to live and be happy after, if he could 
sustain this world's burden after, why all this 
pudder and preparation, — why torment us 
with all this unnecessary sympathy ? As if the 
childish pleasure of getting his gilt robes and 
sceptre again could tempt him to act over 
again his misused station — as if, at his years 
and with his experience, anything was left but 
to die. 

Lear is essentially impossible to be repre- 
sented on a stage. But how many dramatic 
personages are there in Shakspeare, which 
though more tractable and feasible (if I may 
so speak) than Lear, yet from some circum- 
stance, some adjunct to their character, are 
improper to be shown to our bodily eye ! 



= 



32 



ESSAYS. 



Othello /or instance. Nothing can be more 
soothing, more flattering to the nobler parts 
of our natures, than to read of a young 
Venetian lady of highest extraction, through 
the force of love and from a sense of merit in 
him whom she loved, laying aside every con- 
sideration of kindred, and country, and colour, 
and wedding with a coal-black Moor — (for such 
he is represented, in the imperfect state of 
knowledge respecting foreign countries in those 
days, compared with our own, or in compliance 
with popular notions, though the Moors are 
now well enough known to be by many shades 
less unworthy of a white woman's fancy) — it 
is the perfect triumph of virtue over accidents, 
of the imagination over the senses. She sees 
Othello's colour in his mind. But upon the 
stage, when the imagination is no longer the 
ruling faculty, but we are left to our poor un- 
assisted senses, I appeal to every one that has 
seen Othello played, whether he did not, on 
the contrary, sink Othello's mind in his colour ; 
whether he did not find something extremely 
revolting in the courtship and wedded caresses 
of Othello and Desdemona ; and whether the 
actual sight of the thing did not over- weigh all 
that beautiful compromise which we make in 
reading ; — and the reason it should do so is 
obvious, because there is just so much reality 
presented to our senses as to give a perception 
of disagreement, with not enough of belief in 
the internal motives,' — all that which is unseen, 
— to overpower and reconcile the first and 
obvious prejudices*. "What we see upon a 
stage is body and bodily action ; what we are 
conscious of in reading is almost exclusively 
the mind, and its movements ; and this I think 
may sufficiently account for the very different 
sort of delight with which the same play 
so often affects us in the reading and the seeing. 

* The error of supposing that hecause Othello's colour 
does not offend us in the reading, it should also not offend 
us in the seeing, is just such a fallacy as supposing that an 
Adam and Rve in a picture shall affect us just as they do 
in the poem. But in the poem we for a while have Para- 
disaical senses given us, which vanish when we see a man 
and his wife without clothes in the picture. The painters 
themselves feel this, as is apparent by the awkward shifts 
they have recourse to, to make them look not quite naked ; 
by a sort of prophetic anachronism, antedating the inven- 
tion of fig-leaves. So in the reading of the play, we see 
with Desdemona's eyes : in the seeing of it, we are forced 
to look with our own. 



It requires little reflection to perceive, that 
if those characters in Shakspeare which are 
within the precincts of nature, have yet some- 
thing in them which appeals too exclusively to 
the imagination, to admit of their being made 
objects to the senses without suffering a change 
and a diminution, — that still stronger the ob- 
jection must lie against representing another 
line of characters, which Shakspeare has 
introduced to give a wildness and a super- 
natural elevation to his scenes, as if to remove 
them still farther from that assimilation to 
common life in which their excellence is 
vulgarly supposed to consist. "When we read 
the incantations of those terrible beings the 
"Witches in Macbeth, though some of the in- 
gredients of their hellish composition savour 
of the grotesque, yet is the effect upon us 
other than the most serious and appalling that 
can be imagined ? Do we not feel spell-bound 
as Macbeth was ? Can any mirth accompany 
a sense of their presence ? We might as well 
laugh under a consciousness of the principle 
of Evil himself being truly and really present 
with us. But attempt to bring these things on 
to a stage, and you turn them instantly into so 
many old women, that men and children are 
to laugh at. Contrary to the old saying, that 
" seeing is believing," the sight actually de- 
stroys the faith ; and the mirth in which we 
indulge at their expense, when we see these 
creatures upon a stage, seems to be a sort of 
indemnification which we make to ourselves for 
the terror which they put us in when reading 
made them an object of belief, — when we sur- 
rendered up our reason to the poet, as children 
to their nurses and their elders ; and we laugh 
at our fears as children who thought they saw 
something in the dark, triumph when the 
bringing in of a candle discovers the vanity of 
their fears. For this exposure of supernatural 
agents upon a stage is truly bringing in a 
candle to expose their own delusiveness. It is 
the solitary taper and the book that generates 
a faith in these terrors : a ghost by chandelier 
light, and in good company, deceives no spec- 
tators, — a ghost that can be measured by the 
eye, and his human dimensions made out at 
leisure. The sight of a well-lighted house, and 
a well-dressed audience, shall arm the most 
nervous child against any apprehensions : as 
Tom Brown says of the impenetrable skin of 



ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEABE. 



33 



Achilles with his impenetrable armour over it, 
" Bully Dawson would have fought the devil 
with such advantages." 

Much has been said, and deservedly, in re- 
probation of the vile mixture which Dryden 
has thrown into the Tempest : doubtless with- 
out some such vicious alloy, the impure ears 
of that age would never have sate out to hear 
so much innocence of love as is contained in 
the sweet courtship of Ferdinand and Miranda. 
But is the Tempest of Shakspeare at all a 
subject for stage representation % It is one 
thing to read of an enchanter, and to believe 
the wondrous tale while we are reading it ; 
but to have a conjuror brought before us in his 
conjuring-gown, with his spirits about him, 
which none but himself and some hundred of 
favoured spectators before the curtain are 
supposed to see, involves such a quantity of the 
hateful incredible, that all our reverence for the 
author cannot hinder us from perceiving such 
gross attempts upon the senses to be in the 
highest degree childish and inefficient. Spirits 
and fairies cannot be represented, they cannot 
even be painted, — they can only be believed. 
But the elaborate and anxious provision of 
scenery, which the luxury of the age demands, 
in these cases works a quite contrary effect to 
what is intended. That which in comedy, or 
plays of familiar life, adds so much to the life 
of the imitation, in plays which appeal to the 
higher faculties positively destroys the illusion 
which it is introduced to aid. A parlour or a 
drawing-room, — a library openinginto agarden 
— a garden with an alcove in it, — a street, or 
the piazza of Covent-garden, does well enough 
in a scene ; we are content to give as much 
credit to it as it demands ; or rather, we think 
little about it, — it is little more than reading 
at the top of a page, " Scene, a garden ;" we 
do not imagine ourselves there, but we readily 
admit the imitation of familiar objects. But 
to think by the help of painted trees and 
caverns, which we know to be painted, to trans- 
port our minds to Prospero, and his island and 
his lonely cell * j or by the aid of a fiddle 
dexterously thrown in, in an interval of 

* It will be said these things are done in pictures. But 
pictures and scenes are very different things. Painting is 
a world of itself, but in scene-painting there is the attempt 
to deceive : and there is the discordancy, never to be got 
over, between painted scenes and real people. 



speaking, to make us believe that we hear 
those supernatural noises of which the isle was 
full : the Orrery Lecturer at the Haymarket 
might as well hope, by his musical glasses 
cleverly stationed out of sight behind his appa- 
ratus, to make us believe that we do indeed 
hear the crystal spheres ring out that chime, 
which if it were to enwrap our fancy long, 
Milton thinks, 

Time would run back and fetch the age of gold, 

And speckled Vanity 

Would sicken soon and die, 

And leprous Sin would melt from earthly mould ; 

Yea Hell itself would pass away, 

And leave its dolorous mansions to the peering day. 

The garden of Eden, with our first parents in 
it, is not more impossible to be shown on a 
stage, than the Enchanted isle, with its no less 
interesting and innocent first settlers. 

The subject of Scenery is closely connected 
with that of the Dresses, which are so anxiously 
attended to on our stage. I remember the last 
time I saw Macbeth played, the discrepancy I 
felt at the changes of garment which he varied, 
the shiftings and re-shiftings, like a Romish 
priest at mass. The luxury of stage-improve- 
ments, and the importunity of the public eye, 
require this. The coronation robe of the 
Scottish monarch was fairly a counterpart to 
that which our King wears when he goes to 
the Parliament-house, just so full and cumber- 
some, and set out with ermine and pearls. 
And if things must be represented, I see not 
what to find fault with in this. But in reading, 
what robe are we conscious of ? Some dim 
images of royalty — a crown and sceptre, may 
float before our eyes, but who shall describe 
the fashion of it ? Do we see in our mind's 
eye what Webb or any other robe-maker could 
pattern ? This is the inevitable consequence 
of imitating everything, to make all things 
natural. Whereas the reading of a tragedy is 
a fine abstraction. It presents to the fancy 
just so much of external appearances as to 
make us feel that we are among flesh and 
blood, while by far the greater and better part 
of our imagination is employed upon the 
thoughts and internal machinery of the 
character. But in acting, scenery, dress, the 
most contemptible things call upon us to judge 
of their naturalness. 

Perhaps it would be no bad similitude, to 



34 



ESSAYS. 



liken the pleasure which we take in seeing one 
of these fine plays acted, compared with that 
quiet delight which we find in the reading of it, 
to the different feelings with which a reviewer, 
and a man that is not a reviewer, reads a fine 
poem. The accursed critical habit, — the being 
called upon to judge and pronounce, must 
make it quite a different thing to the former. 
In seeing these plays acted, we are affected 
just as judges. When Hamlet compares the 
two pictures of Gertrude's first and second 
husband, who wants to see the pictures ? But 
in the acting, a miniature must be lugged out ; 
which we know not to be the picture, but only 
to show how finely a miniature may be repre- 
sented. This showing of everything levels all 
things : it makes tricks, bows, and curtseys, of 
importance. Mrs. S. never got more fame by 
anything than by the manner in which she 
dismisses the guests in the banquet-scene in 



Macbeth : it is as much remembered as any of 
her thrilling tones or impressive looks. But 
does such a trifle as this enter into the imagina- 
tions of the readers of that wild and wonderful 
scene ? Does not the mind dismiss the feasters 
as rapidly as it can ? Does it care about the 
gracefulness of the doing it ? But by acting, 
and judging of acting, all these non-essentials 
are raised into an importance, injurious to the 
main interest of the play. 

I have confined my observations to the tragic 
parts of Shakspeare. It would be no very 
difficult task to extend the inquiry to his 
comedies ; and to show why Falstaff, Shallow, 
Sir Hugh Evans, and the rest, are equally 
incompatible with stage representation. The 
length to which this Essay has run will make 
it, I am afraid, sufficiently distasteful to the 
Amateurs of the Theatre, without going any 
deeper into the subject at present. 



CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS, 

CONTEMPORARY WITH SHAKSPEARE. 



When I selected for publication, in 1808, 
Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who 
lived about the time of Shakspeare, the kind 
of extracts which I was anxious to give were 
not so much passages of wit and humour, though 
the old plays are rich in such, as scenes of pas- 
sion, sometimes of the deepest quality, inte- 
resting situations, serious descriptions, that 
which is more nearly allied to poetry than to 
wit, and to tragic rather than to comic poetry. 
The plays which I made choice of were, 
with few exceptions, such as treat of human 
life and manners, rather than masques and 
Arcadian pastorals, with their train of ab- 
stractions, unirnpassioned deities, passionate 
mortals — Claius, and Medorus, and Amintas, 
and Amaryllis. My leading design was to illus- 
trate what may be called the moral sense of 
our ancestors. To show in what manner they 
felt, when they placed themselves by the power 
of imagination in trying circumstances, in the 
conflicts of duty and passion, or the strife of 



contending duties ; what sort of loves and en- 
mities theirs were ; how their griefs were tem- 
pered, and their full-swoln joys abated : how 
much of Shakspeare shines in the great men 
his contemporaries, and how far in his divine 
mind and manners he surpassed them and all 
mankind. I was also desirous to bring to- 
gether some of the most admired scenes of 
Fletcher and Massinger, in the estimation of 
the world the only dramatic poets of that age 
entitled to be considered after Shakspeare, and, 
by exhibiting them in the same volume with 
the more impressive scenes of old Marlowe, 
Hey wood, Tourneur, Webster, Ford, and others, 
to show what we had slighted, while beyond all 
proportion we had been crying up one or two 
favourite names. From the desultory criticisms 
which accompanied that publication, I have 
selected a few which I thought would best 
stand by themselves, as requiring least imme- 
diate reference to the play or passage by which 
they were suggested. 



CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS. 



35 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 

Lust's Dominion, or the Lascivious Queen. — This 
tragedy is in King Cambyses' vein ; rape, and 
murder, and superlatives ; " huffing braggart 
puft lines," such as the play-writers anterior 
to Shakspeare are full of, and Pistol but coldly 
imitates. 

Tamburlaine the Great, or the Scythian Shepherd. 
The lunes of Tamburlaine are perfect mid- 
summer madness. Nebuchadnezzar's are mere 
modest pretensions compared with the thun- 
dering vaunts of this Scythian Shepherd. He 
comes in drawn by conquered kings, and re- 
proaches these pampered jades of Asia that they 
can draw hut twenty miles a day. Till I saw this 
passage with my own eyes, I never believed 
that it was anything more than a pleasant 
burlesque of mine Ancient's. But I can assure 
my readers that it is soberly set down in a play, 
which their ancestors took to be serious. 

Edward the Second. — In a very different style 
from mighty Tamburlaine is the tragedy of 
Edward the Second. The reluctant pangs of 
abdicating royalty in Edward furnished hints, 
which Shakspeare scarcely improved in his 
Richard the Second; and the death-scene of 
Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond 
any scene ancient or modern with which I am 
acquainted. 

The Rich Jew of Malta. — Marlowe's Jew does 
not approach so near to Shakspeare' s, as his 
Edward the Second does to Richard the Second. 
Barabas is a mere monster brought in with a 
large painted nose to please the rabble. He 
kills in sport, poisons whole nunneries, invents 
i infernal machines. He is just such an exhi- 
bition as a century or two earlier might have 
been played before the Londoners "by the royal 
command," when a general pillage and mas- 
sacre of the Hebrews had been previously re- 
solved on in the cabinet. It is curious to see 
a superstition wearing out. The idea of a Jew, 
which our pious ancestors contemplated with 
so much horror,has nothing in it now revolting. 
We have tamed the claws of the beast, and 
pared its nails, and now we take it to our arms, 
fondle it, write plays to natter it ; it is visited 
by princes, affects a taste, patronises the arts, 
and is the only liberal and gentlemanlike thing 
in Christendom. 

Doctor Faustus. — The growing horrors of 
Faustus's last scene are awfully marked by the 



hours and half-hours as they expire, and bring 
him nearer and nearer to the exactment of 
his dire compact. It is indeed an agony and 
a fearful colluctation. Marlowe is said to 
have been tainted with atheistical positions, to 
have denied God and the Trinity. To such a 
genius the history of Faustus must have been 
delectable food : to wander in fields where 
curiosity is forbidden to go, to approach the 
dark gulf, near enough to look in, to be busied 
in speculations which are the rottenest part of 
the core of the fruit that fell from the tree of 
knowledge * Barabas the Jew, and Faustus 
the conjuror, are offsprings of a mind which at 
least delighted to dally with interdicted sub- 
jects. They both talk a language which a be- 
liever would have been tender of putting into 
the mouth of a character though but in fiction. 
But the holiest minds have sometimes not 
thought it reprehensible to counterfeit impiety 
in the person of another, to bring Vice upon 
the stage speaking her own dialect ; and, them- 
selves being armed with an unction of self- 
confident impunity, have not scrupled to handle 
and touch that familiarly which would be 
death to others. Milton, in the person of Satan, 
has started speculations hardier than any which 
the feeble armoury of the atheist ever furnished ; 
and the precise, strait-laced Richardson has 
strengthened Vice, from the mouth of Lovelace, 
with entangling sophistries and abstruse pleas 
against her adversary Virtue, which Sedley, 
Villiers, and Rochester, wanted depth of liber- 
tinism enough to have invented. 

THOMAS DECKER. 
Old Fortunatus. — The humour of a frantic 
lover in the scene where Orleans to his friend 
Galloway defends the passion with which him- 
self, being a prisoner in the English king's 
court, is enamoured to frenzy of the king's 
daughter Agripyna, is done to the life. Or- 
leans is as passionate an innamorato as any 
which Shakspeare ever drew. He is just such 
another adept in Love's reasons. The sober 
people of the world are with him, 

A swarm of fools 

Crowding together to be counted wise. 

* Error, entering into the world with Sin among us 
poor Adamites, may be said to spring from the tree of 
knowledge itself, and from the rotten kernels of that 
fatal apple— Howell's Letters. 

B 2 



36 



ESSAYS. 



He talks " pure Biron and Romeo," he is al- 
most as poetical as they, quite as philosophical, 
only a little madder. After all, Love's sec- 
taries are a reason unto themselves. We have 
gone retrograde to the noble heresy, since 
the days when Sidney proselyted our nation 
to this mixed health and disease ; the kind- 
liest symptom, yet the most alarming crisis, 
in the ticklish state of youth ; the nourish er 
and the destroyer of hopeful wits ; the mother 
of twin births, wisdom and folly, valour and 
weakness ; the servitude above freedom ; the 
gentle mind's religion ; the liberal supersti- 
tion. 

The Honest Whore. — There is in the second 
part of this play, where Bellafront, a reclaimed 
harlot, recounts some of the miseries of her pro- 
fession, a simple picture of honour and shame, 
contrasted without violence, and expressed 
without immodesty, which is worth all the 
strong lines against the harlot's profession, with 
which both parts of this play are offensively 
crowded. A satirist is always to be suspected, 
who, to make vice odious, dwells upon all its 
acts and minutest circumstances with a sort 
of relish and retrospective fondness. But so 
near are the boundaries of panegyric and 
invective, that a worn-out sinner is sometimes 
found to make the best declaimer against 
sin. The same high-seasoned descriptions, 
which in his unregenerate state served but to 
inflame his appetites, in his new province of a 
moralist will serve him, a little turned, to ex- 
pose the enormity of those appetites in other 
men. When Cervantes, with such proficiency 
of fondness dwells upon the Don's library, 
who sees not that he has been a great reader 
of books of knight-errantry — perhaps was at 
some time of his life in danger of falling into 
those very extravagances which he ridiculed 
so happily in his hero ? 

JOHN MARSTON. 
Antonio and Mellida. — The situation of An- 
drugioand Lucio,inthe first part of this tragedy, 
— where Andrugio, Duke of Genoa, banished 
his country, with the loss of a son supposed 
drowned, is cast upon the territory of his 
mortal enemy the Duke of Venice, with no 
attendants but Lucio an old nobleman, and a 
page — resembles that of Lear and Kent, in that 
king's distresses. Andrugio, like Lear, mani- 



fests a king-like impatience, a turbulent great- 
ness, an affected resignation. The enemies 
which he enters lists to combat, " Despair and 
mighty Grief and sharp Impatience," and the 
forces which he brings to vanquish them, 
w cornets of horse," &c. are in the boldest 
style of allegory. They are such a "race of 
mourners " as the " infection of sorrows loud " 
in the intellect might beget on some " pregnant 
cloud " in the imagination. The prologue to the 
second part, for its passionate earnestness, and 
for the tragic note of preparation whichit sounds, 
might have preceded one of those old tales 
of Thebes or Pelops' line, which Milton has so 
highly commended, as free from the common 
error of the poets in his day, of " intermixing 
comic stuff with tragic sadness and gravity, 
brought in without discretion corruptly to 
gratify the people." It is as solemn a prepa- 
rative as the " warning voice which he who 
saw the Apocalypse heard cry." 

What You Will. — I shall ne'er forget how he 
went cloatWd. Act I. Scene 1. — To judge of the 
liberality of these notions of dress, we must 
advert to the days of Gresham, and the con- 
sternation which a phenomenon habited like 
the merchant here described would have ex- 
cited among the flat round caps and cloth 
stockings upon 'Change, when those " original 
arguments or tokens of a citizen's vocation 
were in fashion, not more for thrift and use- 
fulness than for distinction and grace." The 
blank uniformity to which all professional dis- 
tinctions in apparel have been long hastening, 
is one instance of the decay of symbols among 
us, which whether it has contributed or not to 
make us a more intellectual, has certainly 
made us a less imaginative people. Shakspeare 
knew the force of signs : a " malignant and a 
turbaned Turk." This "meal-cap miller," says 
the author of God's Revenge against Murder, 
to express his indignation at an atrocious out- 
rage committed by the miller Pierot upon the 
person of the fair Marieta. 

AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
The Merry Devil of Edmonton. — The scene in 
this delightful comedy, in which Jerningham, 
" with the true feeling of a zealous friend," 
touches the griefs of Mounchensey, seems writ- 
ten to make the reader happy. Few of our 
dramatists or novelists have attended enough to 



CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS. 



37 



this. They torture and wound us abundantly. 
They are economists only in delight. Nothing 
can be finer, more gentlemanlike, and nobler, 
than the conversation and compliments of these 
young men. How delicious is Raymond Moun- 
chensey's forgetting, in his fears, that Jerning- 
ham has a " Saint in Essex ; " and how sweetly 
his friend reminds him ! I wish it could be as- 
certained, which there is some grounds for be- 
lieving, that Michael Drayton was the author of 
this piece. It would add a worthy appendage 
to the renown of that Panegyrist of my native 
Earth ; who has gone over her soil, in his Poly- 
olbion, with the fidelity of a herald, and the 
painful love of a son ; who has not left a rivulet, 
so narrow that it may be stepped over, without 
honourable mention ; and has animated hills 
and streams with life and passion beyond the 
dreams of old mythology. 

THOMAS HEYWOOD. 

A Woman Killed with Kindness. — Heywood is 
a sort of prose Shakspeare. His scenes are to 
the full as natural and affecting. But we miss 
the poet, that which in Shakspeare always ap- 
pears out and above the surface of the nature. 
Hey wood's characters, in this play, for instance, 
his country gentlemen, &c, are exactly what 
we see, but of the best kind of what we see in 
life. Shakspeare makes us believe, while we 
are among his lovely creations, that they are 
nothing but what we are familiar with, as in 
dreams new things seem old ; but we awake, 
and sigh for the difference. 

The English Traveller. — Hey wood's preface to 
this play is interesting, as it shows the heroic 
indifference about the opinion of posterity, 
which some of these great writers seem to have 
felt. There is a magnanimity in authorship, 
as in every thing else. His ambition seems to 
have been confined to the pleasure of hearing 
the players speak his lines while he lived. It 
does not appear that he ever contemplated the 
possibility of being read by after ages. What 
a slender pittance of fame was motive sufficient 
to the production of such plays as the English 
Traveller, the Challenge for Beauty, and the 
Woman killed with Kindness ! Posterity is 
bound to take care that a writer loses nothing 
by such a noble modesty. 



THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. 
A Fair Quarrel. — The insipid levelling mo- 
rality to which the modern stage is tied down, 
would not admit of such admirable passions as 
these scenes are filled with. A puritanical 
obtuseness of sentiment, a stupid infantile 
goodness, is creeping among us, instead of the 
vigorous passions, and virtues clad in flesh and 
blood, with which the old dramatists present us. 
Those noble and liberal casuists could discern 
in the differences, the quarrels, the animo- 
sities of men, a beauty and truth of moral 
feeling, no less than in the everlastingly incul- 
cated duties of forgiveness and atonement. 
With us, all is hypocritical meekness. A 
reconciliation-scene, be the occasion never so 
absurd, never fails of applause. Our audiences 
come to the theatre to be complimented on 
their goodness. They compare notes with the 
amiable characters in the play, and find a 
wonderful sympathy of disposition between 
them. We have a common stock of dramatic 
morality, out of which a writer may be supplied 
without the trouble of copying it from originals 
within his own breast. To know the bound- 
aries of honour, to be judiciously valiant, 
to have a temperance which shall beget a 
smoothness in the angry swellings of youth, 
to esteem life as nothing when the sacred 
reputation of a parent is to be defended, yet 
to shake and tremble under a pious cowardice 
when that ark of an honest confidence is found 
to be frail and tottering, to feel the true blows 
of a real disgrace blunting that sword which 
the imaginary strokes of a supposed false im- 
putation had put so keen an edge upon but 
lately : to do, or to imagine this done, in a 
feigned story, asks something more of a moral 
sense, somewhat a greater delicacy of percep- 
tion in questions of right and wrong, than goes 
to the writing of two or three hacknied sen- 
tences about the laws of honour as opposed to 
the laws of the land, or a commonplace against 
duelling. Yet such things would stand a writer 
now-a-days in far better stead than Captain 
Agar and his conscientious honour ; and lie 
would be considered as a far better teacher of 
morality than old Rowley or Middleton, if they 
were living. 



zn 



ESSAYS. 



WILLIAM ROWLEY, 

A New Wonder; a Woman never Vext. — The 
old play- writers are distinguished by an honest 
boldness of exhibition,— they show everything 
without being ashamed. If a reverse in fortune 
is to be exhibited, they fairly bring us to the 
prison-grate and the alms-basket. A poor man 
on our stage is always a gentleman ; he may be 
known by a peculiar neatness of apparel, and 
by wearing black. Our delicacy, in fact, for- 
bids the dramatising of distress at all. It is 
never shown in its essential properties ; it 
appears but as the adjunct of some virtue, as 
something which is to be relieved, from the 
approbation of which relief the spectators are 
to derive a certain soothing of self-referred 
satisfaction. We turn away from the real 
essences of things to hunt after their relative 
shadows, moral duties ; whereas, if the truth 
of things were fairly represented, the relative 
duties might be safely trusted to themselves, 
and moral philosophy lose the name of a 
science. 

THOMAS MIDDLETON. 

The Witch. — Though some resemblance may 
be traced between the charms in Macbeth, 
and the incantations in this play, which is 
supposed to have preceded it, this coincidence 
will not detract much from the originality of 
Shakspeare. His witches are distinguished 
from the witches of Middleton by essential 
differences. These are creatures to whom man 
or woman, plotting some dire mischief, might 
resort for occasional consultation. Those ori- 
ginate deeds of blood, and begin bad impulses 
to men. From the moment that their eyes 
first meet with Macbeth's, he is spell-bound. 
That meeting sways his destiny. He can never 
break the fascination. These witches can hurt 
the body ; those have pow er over the soul. 
Hecate in Middleton has a son, a low buffoon : 
the hags of Shakspeare have neither child of 
their own, nor seem to be descended from 
any parent. They are foul anomalies, of whom 
we know not whence they are sprung, nor 
whether they have beginning or ending. As 
they are without human passions, so they seem 
to be without human relations. They come 
with thunder and lightning, and vanish to airy 
music. This is all we know of them. Except 
Hecate, they have no names ; which heightens 



their mysteriousness. The names, and some 
of the properties which the other author has 
given to his hags, excite smiles. The Weird 
Sisters are serious things. Their presence 
cannot co-exist with mirth. But in a lesser 
degree, the witches of Middleton are fine crea- 
tions. Their power too is, in some measure, 
over the mind. They raise jars, jealousies, 
strifes, " like a thick scurf" over life. 

WILLIAM ROWLEY,— THOMAS DECKER- 
JOHN FORD, etc. 
The Witch of Edmonton. — Mother Sawyer, in 
this wild play, differs from the hags of both 
Middleton and Shakspeare. She is the plain, 
traditional, old-woman witch of our ancestors ; 
poor, deformed, and ignorant ; the terror of 
villages, herself amenable to a justice. That 
should be a hardy sheriff, with the power of the 
county at his heels, that would lay hands on the 
Weird Sisters. They are of another jurisdiction. 
But upon the common and received opinion, 
the author (or authors) have engrafted strong 
fancy. There is something frightfully earnest 
in her invocations to the Familiar. 

CYRIL TOURNEUR. 

The Revenger's Tragedy. — The reality and life 
of the dialogue, in which Vindici and Hippo- 
lito first tempt their mother, and then threaten 
her with death for consenting to the dishonour 
of their sister, passes any scenical illusion I 
ever felt. I never read it but my ears tingle, 
and I feel a hot blush overspread my cheeks, 
as if I were presently about to proclaim such 
malefactions of myself, as the brothers here 
rebuke in their unnatural parent, in words 
more keen and dagger-like than those which 
Hamlet speaks to his mother. Such power 
has the passion of shame truly personated, not 
only to strike guilty creatures unto the soul, 
but to K appal " even those that are " free." 

JOHN WEBSTER. 

The Duchess of Half y. — All the several parts 
of the dreadful apparatus with which the death 
of the Duchess is ushered in, the waxen images 
which counterfeit death, the wild masque of 
madmen, the tomb-maker, the bellman, the 
living person's dirge, the mortification bjl 
degrees, — are not more remote from the con- 
ceptions of ordinary vengeance, than the 



CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS. 



31) 



strange character of suffering which they seem 
to bring upon their victim is out of the imagi- 
nation of ordinary poets. As they are not like 
inflictions of this life, so her language seems 
not of this world. She has lived among horrors 
till she is become " native and endowed unto 
that element." She speaks the dialect of 
despair ; her tongue has a smatch of Tartarus 
and the souls in bale. To move a horror skil- 
fully, to touch a soul to the quick, to lay upon 
fear as much as it can bear, to wean and weary 
a life till it is ready to drop, and then step in 
with mortal instruments to take its last forfeit : 
this only a Webster can do. Inferior geniuses 
may " upon horror's head horrors accumulate," 
but they cannot do this. They mistake quan- 
tity for quality ; they " terrify babes with 
painted devils ; " but they know not how a 
soul is to be moved. Their terrors want dig- 
nity, their affrightments are without decorum. 
The White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona. — This 
White Devil of Italy sets off a bad cause so 
speciously, and pleads with such an innocence- 
resembling boldness, that we seem to see that 
matchless beauty of her face which inspires 
such gay confidence into her, and are ready to 
expect, when she has done her pleadings, that 
her very judges, her accusers, the grave ambas- 
sadors who sit as spectators, and all the court, 
will rise and make proffer to defend her, in 
spite of the utmost conviction of her guilt ; as 
the Shepherds in Don Quixote make proffer 
to follow the beautiful Shepherdess Marcela, 
"without making any profit of her manifest 
resolution made there in their hearing." 
So sweet and lovely does she make the shame, 
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, 
Does spot the heauty of her hudding name ! 

I never saw anything like the funeral dirge 
in this play for the death of Marcello, except 
the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his 
drowned father in the Tempest. As that is 
of the water, watery ; so this is of the earth, 
earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling, 
which seems to resolve itself into the element 
which it contemplates. 

In a note on The Spanish Tragedy in the 
Specimens, I have said that there is nothing in 
the undoubted plays of Jonson which would 
authorise us to suppose that he could have 
supplied the additions to Hieronymo. I sus- 
pected the agency of some more potent spirit. 



I thought that Webster might have furnished 
them. They seemed full of that wild, solemn, 
preternatural cast of grief which bewilders us 
in the Duchess of Malfy. On second consider- 
ation, I think this a hasty criticism. They are 
more like the overflowing griefs and talking 
distraction of Titus Andronicus. The sorrows 
of the Duchess set inward ; if she talks, it is 
little more than soliloquy imitating conversa- 
tion in a kind of bravery. 

JOHN FORD. 
The Broken Heart. — I do not know where to 
find, in any play, a catastrophe so grand, so 
solemn, and so surprising, as in this. This is 
indeed, according to Milton, to describe high 
passions and high actions. The fortitude of 
the Spartan boy, who let a beast gnaw out his 
bowels till he died, without expressing a groan, 
is a faint bodily image of this dilaceration of 
the spirit, and exenteration of the inmost 
mind, which Calantha, with a holy violence 
against her nature, keeps closely covered, till 
the last duties of a wife and a queen are ful- 
filled. Stories of martyrdom are but of chains 
and the stake ; a little bodily suffering. These 
torments 

On the purest spirits prey, 

As on entrails, joints, and limbs, 

With answerable pains, but more intense. 

What a noble thing is the soul, in its strengths 
and in its weaknesses ! Who would be less 
weak than Calantha ? Who can be so strong? 
The expression of this transcendent scene 
almost bears us in imagination to Calvary and 
the Cross ; and we seem to perceive some ana- 
logy between the scenical sufferings which we 
are here contemplating and the real agonies 
of that final completion to which we dare no 
more than hint a reference. Ford was of the 
first order of poets. He sought for sublimity, 
not by parcels, in metaphors or visible images, 
but directly where she has her full residence, 
in the heart of man ; in the actions and suffer- 
ings of the greatest minds. There is a gran- 
deur of the soul, above mountains, seas, and the 
elements. Even in the poor perverted reason 
of Giovanni and Annabella,in the play* which 
stands at the head of the modern collection of 
the works of this author, we discern traces of 
that fiery particle, which, in the irregular start- 
* Tis Pity she's a Whore. 



40 



ESSAYS. 



ingfrom out the road of beaten action, discovers 
something of a right line even in obliquity, and 
shows hints of an improvable greatness in the 
lowest descents and degradations of our nature. 

FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE. 

Alaham, Mustapha. — The two tragedies of 
Lord Brooke, printed among his poems, might 
with more propriety have been termed politi- 
cal treatises than plays. Their author has 
strangely contrived to make passion, character, 
and interest, of the highest order, subservient 
to the expression of state dogmas and mys- 
teries. He is nine parts Machiavel and Tacitus, 
for one part Sophocles or Seneca. In this 
writer's estimate of the powers of the mind, 
the understanding must have held a most 
tyrannical pre-eminence. Whether we look 
into his plays or his most passionate love- 
poems, we shall find all frozen and made rigid 
with intellect. The finest movements of the 
human heart, the utmost grandeur of which 
the soul is capable, are essentially comprised 
in the actions and speeches of Cselica and 
Camena. Shakspeare, who seems to have had 
a peculiar delight in contemplating womanly 
perfection, whom for his many sweet images 
of female excellence all women are in an 
especial manner bound to love, has not raised 
the ideal' of the female character higher than 
Lord Brooke, in these two women, has done. 
But it requires a study equivalent to the learn- 
ing of a new language to understand their mean- 
ing when they speak. It is indeed hard to hit : 
Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day 
Or seven though one should musing sit. 

It is as if a being of pure intellect should take 
upon him to express the emotions of our sensi- 
tive natures. There would be all knowledge, 
but sympathetic expressions would be wanting. 

BEN JONSON. 

The Case is Altered. — The passion for wealth 
has worn out much of its grossness in tract of 
time. Our ancestors certainly conceived of 
money as able to confer a distinct gratification 
in itself, not considered simply as a symbol of 
wealth. The old poets, when they introduce 
a miser, make him address his gold as his mis- 
tress ; as something to be seen, felt, and hugged ; 
as capable of satisfying two of the senses at 
least. The substitution of a thin, unsatisfying 



medium in the place of the good old tangible 
metal, has made avarice quite a Platonic affec- 
tion in comparison with the seeing, touching, 
and handling pleasures of the old Chrysophi- 
lites. A bank-note can no more satisfy the 
touch of a true sensualist in this passion, than 
Creusa could return her husband's embrace in 
the shades. See the Cave of Mammon in 
Spenser ; Barabas's contemplation of his 
wealth in the Rich Jew of Malta ; Luke's rap- 
tures in the City Madam ; the idolatry and 
absolute gold-worship of the miser Jaques in 
this early comic production of Ben Jonson's. 
Above all, hear Guzman, in that excellent old 
translation of the Spanish Rogue, expatiate on 
the " ruddy cheeks of your golden ruddocks, 
your Spanish pistolets, your plump and full- 
faced Portuguese, an d your clear-skinned pieces- 
of-eight of Castile," which he and his fellows 
the beggars kept secret to themselves, and did 
privately enjoy in a plentiful manner. " For 
to have them to pay them away is not to enjoy 
them ; to enjoy them is to have them lying by 
us ; having no other need of them than to use 
them for the clearing of the eyesight, and the 
comforting of our senses. These we did carry 
about with us, sewing them in some patches of 
our doublets near unto the heart, and as close 
to the skin as we could handsomely quilt them 
in, holding them to be restorative." 

Poetaster. — This Roman play seems written 
to confute those enemies of Ben in his own 
days and ours, who have said that he made a 
pedantical use of his learning. He has here 
revived the whole Court of Augustus, by a 
learned spell. "We are admitted to the society 
of the illustrious dead. Virgil, Horace, Ovid, 
Tibullus, converse in our own tongue more finely 
and poetically than they were used to express 
themselves in their native Latin. Nothing can 
be imagined more elegant, refined, and court- 
like, than the scenes between this Louis the 
Fourteenth of antiquity and his literati. The 
whole essence and secret of that kind of inter- 
course is contained therein. The economical 
liberality by which greatness, seeming to 
waive some part of its prerogative, takes care 
to lose none of the essentials ; the prudential 
liberties of an inferior, which flatter by com- 
manded boldness and soothe with compliment- 
ary sincerity ; — these, and a thousand beauti- 
ful passages from his New Inn, his Cynthia's 



CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS. 



41 



Revels, and from those numerous court-masques 
and entertainments, which he was in the daily 
habit of furnishing, might be adduced to show 
the poetical fancy and elegance of mind of the 
supposed rugged old bard. 

Alchemist. — The judgment is perfectly over- 
whelmed by the torrent of images, words, and 
book-knowledge, with which Epicure Mammon 
(Act 2, Scene 2) confounds and stuns his in- 
credulous hearer. They come pouring out 
like the successive falls of Nilus. They 
" doubly redouble strokes upon the foe." 
Description outstrides proof. We are made 
to believe effects before we have testimony 
for their causes* If there is no one image 
which attains the height of the sublime, yet 
the confluence and assemblage of them all 
produces a result equal to the grandest poetry. 
The huge Xerxean army countervails against 
single Achilles. Epicure Mammon is the most 
determined offspring of its author. It has the 
whole "matter and copy of the father — eye, 
nose, lip, the trick of his frown." It is just 
such a swaggerer as contemporaries have 

: described old Ben to be. Meercraft, Bobadil, 
the Host of the New Inn, have all his image 
and superscription. But Mammon is arrogant 

\ pretension personified. Sir Samson Legend, 
in Love for Love, is such another lying, over- 

I bearing character, but he does not come up to 
Epicure Mammon. What a" towering bravery" 
there is in his sensuality ! he affects no pleasure 
under a Sultan. It is as if " Egypt with Assyria 
strove in luxury." 

GEORGE CHAPMAN. 

Bussy D'Ambois, Byron's Conspiracy, Byron's 
Tragedy, 8[c. fyc. — Webster has happily charac- 
terised the " full and heightened style" of 
Chapman, who, of all the English play-writers, 
perhaps approaches nearest to Shakspeare in 
the descriptive and didactic, in passages which 
are less purely dramatic. He could not go 
out of himself, as Shakspeare could shift at 
pleasure, to inform and animate other exist- 
ences, but in himself he had an eye to perceive 
and a soul to embrace all forms and modes of 
being. He would have made a great epic poet, 
if indeed he has not abundantly shown himself 
to be one ; for his Homer is not so properly a 
translation as the stories of Achilles and 
Ulysses rewritten. The earnestness and pas- 



sion which he has put into every part of these 
poems would be incredible to a reader of mere 
modern translations. His almost Greek zeal 
for the glory of his heroes can only be paral- 
leled by that fierce spirit of Hebrew bigotry, 
with which Milton, as if personating one of 
the zealots of the old law, clothed himself 
when he sat down to paint the acts of Samson 
against the uncircumcised. The great obstacle 
to Chapman's translations being read, is their 
unconquerable quaintness. He pours out in 
the same breath the most just and natural, 
and the most violent and crude expressions. 
He seems to grasp at whatever words come 
first to hand while the enthusiasm is upon him, 
as if all other must be inadequate to the divine 
meaning. But passion (the all in all in poetry) 
is everywhere present, raising the low, dignify- 
ing the mean, and putting sense into the absurd. 
He makes his readers glow, weep, tremble, 
take any affection which he pleases, be moved 
by words, or in spite of them, be disgusted, 
and overcome their disgust. 

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.— JOHN FLETCHER. 

Maid's Tragedy. — One characteristic of the 
excellent old poets is, their being able to bestow 
grace upon subjects which naturally do not 
seem susceptible of any. I will mention two 
instances. Zelmane in the Arcadia of Sidney, 
and Helena in the All's Well that Ends Well 
of Shakspeare. What can be more unpromis- 
ing, at first sight, than the idea of a young man 
disguising himself in woman's attire, and pass- 
ing himself off for a woman among women ; 
and that for a long space of time ? Yet Sir 
Philip has preserved so matchless a decorum, 
that neither does Pyrocles' manhood suffer 
any stain for the effeminacy of Zelmane, nor 
is the respect due to the princesses at all 
diminished when the deception comes to be 
known. In the sweetly-constituted mind of 
Sir Philip Sidney, it seems as if no ugly thought 
or unhandsome meditation could find a har- 
bour. He turned all that he touched into 
images of honour and virtue. Helena in Shak- 
speare is a young woman seeking a man in 
marriage. The ordinary rules of courtship 
are reversed, the habitual feelings are crossed. 
Yet with such exquisite address this dangerous 
subject is handled, that Helena's forwardness 
loses her no honour ; delicacy dispenses with 



42 



ESSAYS. 



its laws in her favour, and nature, in her 
single case, seems content to suffer a sweet 
violation. Aspatia, in the Maid's Tragedy, is 
a character equally difficult with Helena, of 
being managed with grace. She too is a 
slighted woman, refused by the man who had 
once engaged to marry her. Yet it is artfully 
contrived, that while we pity we respect her, 
and she descends without degradation. Such 
wonders true poetry and passion can do, to 
confer dignity upon subjects which do not 
seem capable of it. But Aspatia must not be 
compared at all points with Helena ; she does 
not so absolutely predominate over her situation 
but she suffers some diminution, some abate- 
ment of the full lustre of the female character, 
which Helena never does. Her character has 
many degrees of sweetness, some of delicacy ; 
but it has weakness, which, if we do not despise, 
we are sorry for. After all, Beaumont and 
Fletcher were but an inferior sort of Shak- 
speares and Sidneys. 

Philaster. — The character of Bellario must 
have been extremely popular in its day. For 
many years after the date of Philaster's first 
exhibition on the stage, scarce a play can be 
found without one of these women-pages in it, 
following in the train of some pre-engaged 
lover, calling on the gods to bless her happy 
rival (his mistress), whom no doubt she secretly 
curses in her heart, giving rise to many pretty 
equivoques by the way on the confusion of sex, 
and either made happy at last by some sur- 
prising turn of fate, or dismissed with the 
joint pity of the lovers and the audience. 
Donne has a copy of verses to his mistress, 
dissuading her from a resolution, which she 
seems to have taken up from some of these 
scenical representations, of following him 
abroad as a page. It is so earnest, so weighty, 
so rich in poetry, in sense, in wit, and pathos, 
that it deserves to be read as a solemn close 
in future to all such sickly fancies as he there 
deprecates. 

JOHN FLETCHER. 

Thierry and Theodoret. — The scene where 
Ordella offers her life a sacrifice, that the king 
of France may not be childless, I have always 
considered as the finest in all Fletcher, and 
Ordella to be the most perfect notion of the 
female heroic character, next to Calantha in 
the Broken Heart. She is a piece of sainted 



nature. Yet, noble as the whole passage is, 
it must be confessed that the manner of it, 
compared with Shakspeare's finest scenes, is 
faint and languid. Its motion is circular, not 
progressive. Each line revolves on itself in a 
sort of separate orbit. They do not join into 
one another like a running-hand. Fletcher's 
ideas moved slow ; his versification, though 
sweet, is tedious, it stops at every turn ; he 
lays line upon line, making up one after the 
other, adding image to image so deliberately, 
that we see their junctures. Shakspeare 
mingles everything, runs line into line, embar- 
rasses sentences and metaphors ; before one 
idea has burst its shell, another is hatched and 
clamorous for disclosure. Another striking 
difference between Fletcher and Shakspeare 
is the fondness of the former for unnatural 
and violent situations. He seems to have 
thought that nothing great could be produced 
in an ordinary way. The chief incidents in 
some of his most admired tragedies show this.* 
Shakspeare had nothing of this contortion in 
his mind, none of that craving after violent 
situations, and flights of strained and impro- 
bable virtue, which I think always betrays 
an imperfect moral sensibility. The wit of 
Fletcher is excellent f, like his serious scenes, 
but there is something strained and far-fetched 
in both. He is too mistrustful of Nature, he 
always goes a little on one side of her. — Shak- 
speare chose her without a reserve : and had i 
riches, power, understanding, and length of 
days, with her for a dowry. 

Faithful Shepherdess. — If all the parts of this 
delightful pastoral had been in unison with its 
many innocent scenes and sweet lyric inter- 
mixtures, it had been a poem fit to vie with 
Comus or the Arcadia, to have been put into 
the hands of boys and virgins, to have made 
matter for young dreams, like the loves of 
Hermia and Lysander. But a spot is on the 
face of this Diana. Nothing short of infatua- 
tion could have driven Fletcher upon mixing 
with this " blessedness" such an ugly deformity 
as Chloe, the wanton shepherdess ! If Chioe was 
meant to set off Clorin by contrast, Fletcher 
should have known that such weeds by juxta- 
position do not set off, but kill sweet flowers. 

* Wife for a Month, Cupid's Revenge, Double Marriage^ 
&c. 
t Wit without Money, and his comedies generally. 



SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER. 



43 



PHILIP MASSINGER.— THOMAS DECKER. 

The Virgin Martyr. — This play has some 
beauties of so very high an order, that with 
all my respect for Massinger, I do not think 
he had poetical enthusiasm capable of rising 
up to them. His associate Decker, who wrote 
Old Fortunatus, had poetry enough for any- 
thing. The very impurities which obtrude 
themselves among the sweet pieties of this 
play, like Satan among the Sons of Heaven, 
have a strength of contrast, a raciness, and a 
glow, in them, which are beyond Massinger. 
They are to the religion of the rest what 
Caliban is to Miranda. 

PHILIP MASSINGER— THOMAS MIDDLETON— 
WILLIAM ROWLEY. 

Old Law. — There is an exquisiteness of moral 



sensibility, making one's eyes to gush out tears 
of delight, and a poetical strangeness in the 
circumstances of this sweet tragi-comedy, 
which are unlike anything in the dramas which 
Massinger wrote alone. The pathos is of a 
subtler edge. Middleton and Rowley, who 
assisted in it, had both of them finer geniuses 
than their associate. 

JAMES SHIRLEY 
Claims a place amongst the worthies of this 
period, not so much for any transcendent 
talent in himself, as that he was the last of a 
great race, all of whom spoke nearly the same 
language, and had a set of moral feelings and 
notions in common. A new language, and 
quite a new turn of tragic and comic interest, 
came in with the Restoration. 



SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER, 

THE CHURCH HISTORIAN. 



The writings of Fuller are usually desig- 
nated by the title of quaint, and with sufficient 
reason ; for such was his natural bias to con- 
ceits, that I doubt not upon most occasions it 
would have been going out of his way to have 
expressed himself out of them. But his wit 
is not always a lumen siccum, a dry faculty of 
surprising ; on the contrary, his conceits are 
oftentimes deeply steeped in human feeling 
and passion. Above all, his way of telling a 
story, for its eager liveliness, and the perpetual 
running commentary of the narrator happily 
blended with the narration, is perhaps un- 
equalled. 

As his works are now scarcely perused but 
by antiquaries, I thought it might not be 
unacceptable to my readers to present them 
with some specimens of his manner, in single 
thoughts and phrases ; and in some few pas- 
sages of greater length, chiefly of a narrative 
description. I shall arrange them as I casually 
find them in my book of extracts, without 
being solicitous to specify the particular work 
from which they are taken. 



Pyramids. — " The Pyramids themselves, 
doting with age, have forgotten the names of 
their founders." 

Virtue in a short person. — " His soul had but a 
short diocese to visit, and therefore might the 
better attend the effectual informing thereof." 

Intellect in a very tall one. — " Ofttimes such 
who are built four stories high, are observed to 
have little in their cock-loft." 

Naturals. — " Their heads sometimes so little, 
that there is no room for wit ; sometimes so long, 
that there is no wit for so much room." 

Negroes. — " The image of God cut in ebony." 

School-divinity. — " At the first it will be as 
welcome to thee as a prison, and their very 
solutions will seem knots unto thee." 

Mr. Perkins the Divine. — "He had a capa- 
cious head, with angles winding and roomy 
enough to lodge all controversial intricacies." 

The same. — " He would pronounce the word 
Damn with such an emphasis as left a doleful 
echo in his auditors' ears a good while after." 

Judges in capital cases. — " O let him take heed 
j how he strikes that hath a dead hand." 



44 



ESSAYS. 



Memory. — " Philosophers place it in the rear 
of the head, and it seems the mine of memory- 
lies there, because there men naturally dig for 
it, scratching it when they are at a loss." 

Fancy. — " It is the most boundless and rest- 
less faculty of the soul ; for while the Under- 
standing and the Will are kept, as it were, in 
libera custodia to their objects of verum et bonum, 
the Fancy is free from all engagements : it 
digs without spade, sails without ship, flies 
without wings, builds without charges, fights 
without bloodshed : in a moment striding from 
the centre to the circumference of the world ; 
by a kind of omnipotency creating and annihi- 
lating things in an instant ; and things divorced 
in Nature are married in Fancy as in a lawless 
place." 

Infants. — " Some, admiring what motives to 
mirth infants meet with in their silent and 
solitary smiles, have resolved, how truly I 
know not, that then they converse with angels ; 
as indeed such cannot among mortals find any 
fitter companions." 

Music. — " Such is the sociableness of music, 
it conforms itself to all companies both in mirth 
and mourning ; complying to improve that 
passion with which it finds the auditors most 
aifected. In a word, it is an invention which 
might have beseemed a son of Seth to have 
been the father thereof : though better it was 
that Cain's great-grandchild should have the 
credit first to find it, than the world the un- 
happiness longer to have wanted it." 

St. Monica. — " Drawing near her death, she 
sent most pious thoughts as harbingers to 
heaven, and her soul saw a glimpse of happi- 
ness through the chinks of her sickness-broken 
body *." 

Mortality. — " To smell to a turf of fresh earth 
is wholesome for the body, no less are thoughts 
of mortality cordial to the soul." 

Virgin. — " No lordling husband shall at the 
same time command her presence and distance ; 
to be always near in constant attendance, and 
always to stand aloof in awful observance." 

Elder Brother. — " Is one who made haste to 
come into the world to bring his parents the 
first news of male posterity, and is well re- 
warded for his tidings." 

* The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decayed, 
Lets in new lights through chinks which time has made. 

Waller. 



Bishop Fletcher. — " His pride was rather on 
him than in him, as only gait and gesture deep, 
not sinking to his heart, though causelessly 
condemned for a proud man, as who was a 
good hypocrite, and far more humble than he 
appeared." 

Masters of Colleges. — " A little allay of dulness 
in a Master of a College makes him fitter to 
manage secular affairs." 

The Good Yeoman. — " Is a gentleman in ore, 
whom the next age may see refined." 

Good Parent. — "For his love, therein like a 
well-drawn picture, he eyes all his children 
alike." 

Deformity in Children. — " This partiality is 
tyranny, when parents despise those that are 
deformed ; enough to break those whom God had 
bowed before.'" 

Good Master. — " In correcting his servant he 
becomes not a slave to his own passion. Not 
cruelly making new indentures of the flesh of 
his apprentice. He is tender of his servant in 
sickness and age. If crippled in his service, 
his house is his hospital. Yet how many throw 
away those dry bones, out of the which them- 
selves have sucked the marrow ! " 

Good Widow. — " If she can speak but little 
good of him [her dead husband] she speaks 
but little of him. So handsomely folding up 
her discourse, that his virtues are shown out- 
wards, and his vices wrapped up in silence ; as 
counting it barbarism to throw dirt on his 
memory, who hath mould cast on his body." 

Horses. — " These are men's wings, wherewith 
they make such speed. A generous creature a 
horse is, sensible in some sort of honour ; and 
made most handsome by that which deforms 
men most — pride." 

Martyrdom. — " Heart of oak hath sometimes 
warped a little in the scorching heat of perse- 
cution. Their want of true courage herein 
cannot be excused. Yet many censure them 
for surrendering up their forts after a long 
siege, who would have yielded up their own at 
the first summons. — Oh ! there is more re- 
quired to make one valiant, than to call Cran- 
mer or Jewel coward ; as if the fire in Smith- 
field had been no hotter than what is painted 
in the Book of Martyrs." 

Text of St. Paul.—" St. Paul saith, Let not 
the sun go down on your wrath, to carry news 
to the antipodes in another world of thy 



SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER. 



45 



revengeful nature. Yet let us take the 
Apostle's meaning rather than his words, with 
all possible speed to depose our passion ; not 
understanding him so literally, that we may 
take leave to be angry till sunset : then might 
our wrath lengthen with the days ; and men in 
Greenland, where the day lasts above a quarter 
of a year, have plentiful scope for revenge *." 

Bishop Brownrig. — " He carried learning 
enough in numerato about him in his pockets 
for any discourse, and had much more at home 
in his chests for any serious dispute." 

Modest Want. — " Those that with diligence 
fight against poverty, though neither conquer 
till death makes it a drawn battle, expect not 
but prevent their craving of thee : for God 
forbid the heavens should never rain, till the 
earth first opens her mouth ; seeing some grounds 
will sooner burn than chapV 

Death-bed Temptations. — " The devil is most 
busy on the last day of his term ; and a tenant 
to be outed cares not what mischief he doth." 

Conversation. — " Seeing we are civilised En- 
glishmen, let us not be naked savages in 
our talk." 

Wounded Soldier. — "Halting is the stateliest 
march of a soldier ; and 'tis a brave sight to 
see the flesh of an ancient as torn as his 
colours.". 

Wat Tyler. — " A misogrammatist ; if a good 
Greek word may be given to so barbarous a 
rebel." 

Heralds. — " Heralds new mould men's names 
— taking from them, adding to them, melting 
out all the liquid letters, torturing mutes to 
make them speak, and making vowels dumb, 
— to bring it to a fallacious homonomy at the 
last, that their uames may be the same with 
those noble houses they pretend to." 

Antiquarian Diligence.— "It is most worthy 
observation, witli what diligence he [Camden] 
inquired after ancient places, making hue and 
cry after many a city which was run away, 
and by certain marks and tokens pursuing to 

* This whimsical prevention of a consequence which 
no one would have thought of deducing,— setting up an 
ahsurdum on purpose to hunt it down,— placing guards as 
it were at the very outposts of possibility— gravely giving 
out laws to insanity and prescribing moral fences to dis- 
tempered intellects, could never have entered into a head 
less entertainingly constructed than that of Fuller, or Sir 
Thomas Browne, the very air of whose style the conclu- 
sion of this passage most aptly imitates. 



find it ; as by the situation on the Roman high- 
ways, by just distance from other ancient cities, 
by some affinity of name, by tradition of the 
inhabitants, by Roman coins digged up, and by 
some appearance of ruins. A broken urn is a 
whole evidence ; or an old gate still surviving, 
out of which the city is run out. Besides, 
commonly some new spruce town not far off is 
grown out of the ashes thereof, which yet hath 
so much natural affection as dutifully to own 
those reverend ruins for her mother." 

Henry de Essex. — " He is too well known in 
our English Chronicles, being Baron of Raleigh, 
in Essex, and Hereditary Standard Bearer of 
England. It happened in the reign of this 
king [Henry II. J there was a fierce battle 
fought in Flintshire, at Coleshall, between the 
English and "Welsh, wherein this Henry de 
Essex animum et signum simul abjecit, betwixt 
traitor and coward, cast away both his courage 
and banner together, occasioning a great over- 
throw of English. But he that had the base- 
ness to do, had the boldness to deny the doing, 
of so foul a fact ; until he was challenged in 
combat by Robert de Momford, a knight, eye- 
witness thereof, and by him overcome in a 
duel. Whereupon his large inheritance was 
confiscated to the king, and he himself, partly 
thrust, partly going, into a convent, hid his head in a 
cowl, under which, betwixt shame and sanctity, he 
blushed out the remainder of his lifef" — Worthies, 
article Bedfordshire. 

Sir Edward Harwood, Knt. — " I have read of 
a bird, which hath a face like, and yet will 
prey upon, a man ; who coming to the water 
to drink, and finding there by reflection, that 

t The fine imagination of Fuller has done what might 
have been pronounced impossible : it has given an interest, 
and a holy character, to coward infamy. Nothing can 
be more beautiful than the concluding account of the 
last days, and expiatory retirement, of poor Henry de 
Essex. The address with which the whole of this little 
story is told is most consummate : the charm of it seems 
to consist in a perpetual balance of antitheses not too 
violently opposed, and the consequent activity of mind in 
which the reader is kept : — " Betwixt traitor and coward" 
— "baseness to do, boldness to deny" — "partly thrust, 
partly going, into a convent" — " betwixt shame and 
sanctity." The reader by this artifice is taken into a 
kind of partnership with the writer, — his judgment is 
exercised in settling the preponderance, — he feels as if he 
were consulted as to the issue. But the modern historian 
flings at once the dead weight of his own judgment into 
the scale, and settles the matter. 



46 



ESSAYS. 



he had killed one like himself, pineth away by 
degrees, and never afterwards enjoy eth itself *. 
Such is in some sort the condition of Sir 
Edward. This accident, that he had killed 
one in a private quarrel, put a period to his 
carnal mirth, and was a covering to his eyes 
all the days of his life. No possible provoca- 
tions could afterwards tempt him to a duel ; 
and no wonder that one's conscience loathed 
that whereof he had surfeited. He refused 
all challenges with more honour than others ac- 
cepted them ; it being well known, that he would 
set his foot as far in the face of his enemy as 
any man alive." — Worthies, art. Lincolnshire. 

Decayed Gentry. — " It happened in the reign 
of King James, when Henry Earl of Hunting- 
don was Lieutenant of Leicestershire, that a 
labourer's son in that country was pressed into 
the wars ; as I take it, to go over with Count Mans- 
field. The old man at Leicester requested his 
son might be discharged, as being the only staff 
of his age, who by his industry maintained him 
and his mother. The Earl demanded his name, 
which the man for a long time was loath to tell 
(as suspecting it a fault for so poor a man to 
confess the truth), at last he told his name was 
Hastings. 'Cousin Hastings,' said the Earl, 
4 we cannot all be top branches of the tree, 
though we all spring from the same root ; your 
son, my kinsman, shall not be pressed.' So 
good was the meeting of modesty in a poor, 
with courtesy in an honourable person, and 
gentry I believe in both. And I have reason 
to believe, that some who justly own the sur- 
names and blood of Bohuns, Mortimers, and 
Plantagenets (though ignorant of their own 

* I do not know where Fuller read of this bird ; but a 
more awful and affecting story, and moralising of a story, 
in Natural History, or rather in that Fabulous Natural 
History where poets and mythologists found the Phoenix 
and the Unicorn and "other strange fowl," is nowhere 
extant. It is a fable which Sir Thomas Browne, if he had 
heard of it, would have exploded among his Vulgar 
Errors; but the delight which he would have taken in 
the discussing of its probabilities, would have shown that 
the truth of the fact, though the avowed object of his 
search, was not so much the motive which put him upon 
the investigation, as those hidden affinities and poetical 
analogies, — those essential verities in the application of 
strange fable, which made him linger with such reluctant 
delay among the last fading lights of popular tradition ; 
and not seldom to conjure up a superstition, that had been 
long extinct, from its dusty grave, to inter it himself with 
greater ceremonies and solemnities of burial. 



extractions), are hid in the heap of common 
people, where they find that under a thatched 
cottage which some of their ancestors could 
not enjoy in a leaded castle, — contentment, 
with quiet and security." — Worthies, art. Of 
Shire-Reeves or Shiriffes. 

Tenderness of Conscience in a Tradesman. — 
"Thomas Curson, born in Allhallows, Lom- 
bard-street, armourer, dwelt without Bishops- 
gate. It happened that a stage-player borrowed 
a rusty musket, which had lain long leger in 
his shop : now though his part were comical, he 
therewith acted an unexpected tragedy, killing 
one of the standers by, the gun casually going 
off on the stage, which he suspected not to be 
charged. the difference of divers men in 
the tenderness of their consciences ! some are 
scarce touched with a wound, whilst^ others 
are wounded with a touch therein. This poor 
armourer was highly afflicted therewith, though 
done against his will, yea, without his knowledge, 
in his absence, by another, out of mere chance. 
Hereupon he resolved to give all his estate to 
pious uses : no sooner had he gotten a round 
sum, but presently he posted with it in his 
apron to the Court of Aldermen, and was 
in pain till by their direction he had settled 
it for the relief of poor in his own and 
other parishes, and disposed of some hun- 
dreds of pounds accordingly, as I am credibly 
informed by the then churchwardens of the 
said parish. Thus as he conceived himself 
casually (though at a great distance) to have 
occasioned the death of one, he was the imme- 
diate and direct cause of giving a comfortable 
living to many." 

Burning of WicMiffe's Body by Order of the 
Council of Constance. — "Hitherto [a. d. 1428] 
the corpse of John Wickliffe had quietly slept 
in his grave about forty-one years after his 
death, till his body was reduced to bones, and 
his bones almost to dust. For though the earth 
in the chancel of Lutterworth, in Leicester- 
shire, where he was interred, hath not so quick 
a digestion with the earth of Aceldama, to con- 
sume flesh in twenty-four hours, yet such the 
appetite thereof, and all other English graves, 
to leave small reversions of a body after so 
many years. But now such the spleen of the 
Council of Constance, as they not only cursed 
his memory as dying an obstinate heretic, but 
ordered that his bones (with this charitable 



ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH. 



47 



caution,— if it may be discerned from the bodies 
of other faithful people) be taken out of the 
ground, and thrown far off from any Christian 
burial. In obedience hereunto, Richard Fle- 
ming, Bishop of Lincoln, Diocesan of Lutter- 
worth, sent his officers (vultures with a quick 
sight scent at a dead carcass) to ungrave him. 
Accordingly to Lutterworth they come, Sumner, 
Commissary, Official, Chancellor, Proctors, 
Doctors, and their servants, (so that the rem- 



nant of the body would not hold out a bone 
amongst so many hands,) take what was left 
out of the grave, and burnt them to ashes, and 
cast them into Swift, a neighbouring brook, 
running hard by. Thus this brook has conveyed 
his ashes into Awn, Avon into Severn, Severn into 
the narrow seas, then into the main ocean ; and thus 
the ashes of Wickliffe are the emblem of his doctrine, 
which now is dispersed all the world over *." — Church 
History. 



ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH ; 

WITH SOME REMARKS ON A PASSAGE IN THE WRITINGS OF THE LATE MR. BARRY. 



One of the earliest and noblest enjoyments 
I had when a boy, was in the contemplation of 
those capital prints by Hogarth, the Harlot's 
and Rake's Progresses, which, along with some 
others, hung upon the walls of a great hall 

in an old-fashioned house in shire, and 

seemed the solitary tenants (with myself) of 
that antiquated and life-deserted apartment. 

Recollection of the manner in which those 
prints used to affect me, has often made me 
wonder, when I have heard Hogarth described 
as a mere comic painter, as one of those whose 
chief ambition was to raise a laugh. To deny 
that there are throughout the prints which I 
have mentioned circumstances introduced of a 
laughable tendency, would be to run counter 
to the common notions of mankind ; but to 
suppose that in their ruling character they appeal 
chiefly to the risible faculty, and not first and 
foremost to the very heart of man, its best and 
most serious feelings, would be to mistake no 
less grossly their aim and purpose. A set of 
severer Satires (for they are not so much 
Comedies, which they have been likened to, as 
they are strong and masculine Satires) less 
mingled with anything of mere fun, were never 
written upon paper, or graven upon copper. 
They resemble Juvenal, or the satiric touches 
in Timon of Athens. 

I was pleased with the reply of a gentleman, 
who being asked which book he esteemed 
most in his library, answered, — " Shakspeare :" 
being asked which he esteemed next best, 



replied, — " Hogarth." His graphic represent- 
ations are indeed books : they have the teem- 
ing, fruitful, suggestive meaning of words. 

* The concluding period of this most lively narrative I 
will not call a conceit : it is one of the grandest concep- 
tions I ever met with. One feels the ashes of Wickliffe 
gliding away out of the reach of the Sumners, Commissa. 
ries, Officials, Proctors, Doctors, and all the puddering 
rout of executioners of the impotent rage of the baffled 
Council : from Swift into Avon, from Avon into Severn, 
from Severn into the narrow seas, from the narrow seas 
into the main ocean, where they become the emblem of 
his doctrine, " dispersed all the world over." Hamlet's 
tracing the body of Caesar to the clay that stops a beer- 
barrel is a no less curious pursuit of " ruined mortality ;" 
but it is in an inverse ratio to this : it degrades and sad- 
dens us, for one part of our nature at least; but this 
expands the whole of our nature, and gives to the body a 
sort of ubiquity,— a diffusion as far as the actions of its 
partner can have reach or influence. 

I have seen this passage smiled at, and set down as a 
quaint conceit of old Fuller. But what is not a conceit 
to those who read it in a temper different from that in 
which the writer composed it ? The most pathetic parts 
of poetry to cold tempers seem and are nonsense, as 
divinity was to the Greeks foolishness. When Richard II., 
meditating on his own utter annihilation as to royalty, 
cries out, 

" that I were a mockery king of snow, 
To melt before the sun of Bolingbroke !" 

If we have been going on pace for pace with the passion 
before, this sudden conversion of a strong-felt metaphor 
into something to be actually realised in nature, like that 
of Jeremiah, " Oh ! that my head were waters, and mine 
eyes a fountain of tears," is strictly and strikingly natural ; 
but come unprepared upon it, and it is a conceit : and so 
is a " head " turned into " waters." 



48 



ESSAYS. 



Other pictures we look at, — his prints we 
read. 

In pursuance of this parallel, I have some- 
times entertained myself with comparing the 
Timon of Athens of Shakspeare (which I have 
just mentioned) and Hogarth's Pake's Progress 
together. The story, the moral, in both is 
nearly the same. The wild course of riot and 
extravagance, ending in the one with driving 
the Prodigal from the society of men into the 
solitude of the deserts, and in the other with 
conducting the Rake through his several stages 
of dissipation into the still more complete 
desolations of the mad-house, in the play and 
in the picture, are described with almost equal 
force and nature. The levee of the Rake, 
which forms the subject of the second plate in 
the series, is almost a transcript of Timon's 
levee in the opening scene of that play. "We 
find a dedicating poet, and other similar cha- 
racters, in both. 

The concluding scene in the Bake's Progress is 
perhaps superior to the last scenes of Timon. 
If we seek for something of kindred excellence 
in poetry, it must be in the scenes of Lear's 
beginning madness, where the King and the 
Fool and the Tom-o'-Bedlam conspire to pro- 
duce such a medley of mirth checked by 
misery, and misery rebuked by mirth ; where 
the society of those " strange bed-fellows " 
which misfortunes have brought Lear ac- 
quainted with, so finely sets forth the destitute 
state of the monarch ; while the lunatic bans 
of the one, and the disjointed sayings and wild 
but pregnant allusions of the other, so wonder- 
fully sympathise with that confusion, which 
they seem to assist in the production of, in the 
senses of that " child-changed father." 

In the scene in Bedlam, which terminates 
the Pake's Progress, we find the same assort- 
ment of the ludicrous with the terrible. Here 
is desperate madness, the overturning of 
originally strong thinking faculties, at which 
we shudder, as we contemplate the duration 
and pressure of affliction which it must have 
asked to destroy such a building ; — and here 
is the gradual hurtless lapse into idiocy, of 
faculties, which at their best of times never 
having been strong, we look upon the consum- 
mation of their decay with no more of pity 
than is consistent with a smile. The mad 
tailor, the poor driveller that has gone out of 



his wits (and truly he appears to have had no 
great journey to go to get past their confines) 
for the love of Charming Betty Careless, — these 
half-laughable, scarce-pitiable objects take off 
from the horror which the principal figure 
would of itself raise, at the same time that 
they assist the feeling of the scene by con- 
tributing to the general notion of its subject: — 

Madness, thou chaos of the brain, 

What art, that pleasure giv'st, and pain ? 

Tyranny of Fancy's reign ! 

Mechanic Fancy, that can build 

Vast labyrinths and mazes wild, 

With rule disjointed, shapeless measure, 

Fill'd with horror, fill'd with pleasure ! 

Shapes of horror, that would even 

Cast doubts of mercy upon heaven ; 

Shapes of pleasure, that but seen, 

Would split the shaking sides of Spleen *. 

Is it carrying the spirit of comparison to 
excess to remark, that in the poor kneeling 
weeping female who accompanies her seducer 
in his sad decay, there is something analogous 
to Kent, or Caius, as he delights rather to be. 
called, in Lear, — the noblest pattern of virtue 
which even Shakspeare has conceived, — who^j 
follows his royal master in banishment, that 
had pronounced his banishment, and, forgetful 
at once of his wrongs and dignities, taking on 
himself the disguise of a menial, retains his 
fidelity to the figure, his loyalty to the carcass, 
the shadow, the shell and empty husk of 
Lear? 

In the perusal of a book, or of a picture, 
much of the impression which we receive 
depends upon the habit of mind which we bring 
with us to such perusal. The same circum- 
stance may make one person laugh, which shall 
render another very serious ; or in the same 
person the first impression may be corrected 
by after-thought. The misemployed incon- 
gruous characters at the Harlot's Funeral, on 
a superficial inspection, provoke to laughter;, 
but when we have sacrificed the first emotion 
to levity, a very different frame of mind sue-, 
ceeds, or the painter has lost half his purpose. 
I never look at that wonderful assemblage of 
depraved beings, who, without a grain on 
reverence or pity in their perverted minds, are; 
performing the sacred exteriors of duty to the 
relics of their departed partner in folly, but I 
am as much moved to sympathy from the very 
* Lines inscribed under the plate. 



ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH. 



4!) 



want of it in them, as I should be by the finest 
representation of a virtuous death-bed sur- 
rounded by real mourners, pious children, 
weeping friends, — perhaps more by the very 
contrast. What reflections does it not awake, of 
the dreadful heartless state in which the 
creature (a female too) must have lived, who 
in death wants the accompaniment of one 
genuine tear. That wretch who is removing 
the lid of the coffin to gaze upon the corpse 
with a face which indicates a perfect negation 
of all goodness or womanhood — the hypocrite 
parson and his demure partner — all the 
fiendish group — to a thoughtful mind present 
a moral emblem more affecting than if the 
poor friendless carcass had been depicted as 
thrown out to the woods, where wolves had 
assisted at its obsequies, itself furnishing forth 
its own funeral banquet. 

It is easy to laugh at such incongruities as 
are met together in this picture, — incongruous 
objects being of the very essence of laughter, 
but surely the laugh is far different in its kind 
from that thoughtless species to which we are 
moved by mere farce and grotesque. "We laugh 
when Ferdinand Count Fathom, at the first 
sight of the white cliffs of Britain, feels his 
heart yearn with filial fondness towards the 
land of his progenitors, which he is coming to 
fleece and plunder, — we smile at the exquisite 
irony of the passage, — but if we are not led on 
by such passages to some more salutary feeling 
than laughter, we are very negligent perusers 
of them in book or picture. 

It is the fashion with those who cry up the 
great Historical School in this country, at the 
head of which Sir Joshua Reynolds is placed, 
to exclude Hogarth from that school, as an 
artist of an inferior and vulgar class. Those 
persons seem to me to confound the painting of 
subjects in common or vulgar life with the 
being a vulgar artist. The quantity of thought 
which Hogarth crowds into every picture 
would alone unvulgarise every subject which he 
might choose. Let us take the lowest of his 
subjects, the print called Gin Lane. Here is 
plenty of poverty and low stuff to disgust upon 
a superficial view ; and accordingly a cold 
spectator feels himself immediately disgusted 
and repelled. I have seen many turn away 
from it, not being able to bear it. The same 
persons would perhaps have looked with great 



complacency upon Poussin's celebrated picture 
of the Plague at Athens*. Disease and Death 
and bewildering Terror, in Athenian garments, 
are endurable, and come, as the delicate critics 
express it, within the "limits of pleasurable 
sensation." But the scenes of their own St. 
Giles's, delineated by their own countryman, 
are too shocking to think of. Yet if we could 
abstract our minds from the fascinating colours 
of the picture, and forget the coarse execution 
(in some respects) of the print, intended as it 
was to be a cheap plate, accessible to the 
poorer sort of people, for whose instruction it 
was done, I think we could have no hesitation 
in conferring the palm of superior genius upon 
Hogarth, comparing this work of his with 
Poussin's picture. There is more of imagina- 
tion in it — that power which draws all things 
to one, — which makes things animate and in- 
animate, beings with their attributes, subjects, 
and their accessories, take one colour and 
serve to one effect. Everything in the print, 
to use a vulgar expression, tells. Every part is 
full of " strange images of death." It is per- 
fectly amazing and astounding to look at. Not 
only the two prominent figures, the woman 
and the half-dead man, which are as terrible 
as anything which Michael Angel o ever drew, 
but everything else in the print, contributes to 
bewilder and stupify, — the very houses, as I 
heard a friend of mine express it, tumbling all 
about in various directions, seem drunk — seem 
absolutely reeling from the effect of that 
diabolical spirit of frenzy which goes forth 
over the whole composition. To show the 
poetical and almost prophetical conception in 
the artist, one little circumstance may serve. 
Not content with the dying and dead figures, 
which he has strewed in profusion over the 
proper scene of the action, he shows you what 
(of a kindred nature) is passing beyond it. 
Close by the shell, in which, by direction of 
the parish beadle, a man is depositing his 
wife, is an old wall, which, partaking of the 
universal decay around it, is tumbling to pieces. 
Through a gap in this wall are seen three 
figures, which appear to make a part in some 
funeral procession which is passing by on the 
other side of the wall, out of the sphere of the 
composition. This extending of the interest 
beyond the bounds of the subject could only 



* At the late Mr. Hope's, in Cavendish square. 



50 



ESSAYS. 



have been conceived by a great genius. Shak- 
speare, in his description of the painting of 
the Trojan War, in his Tarquin and Lucrece, 
lias introduced a similar device, where the 
painter made a part stand for the whole : — 

For much imaginary work was there, 
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind, 
That for Achilles' image stood his spear, 
Grip'd in an armed hand ; himself behind 
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind : 
A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, 
Stood for the whole to be imagined. 

This he well calls imaginary work, where the 
spectator must meet the artist in his concep- 
tions half way ; and it is peculiar to the confi- 
dence of high genius alone to trust so much to 
spectators or readers. Lesser artists show 
everything distinct and full, as they require 
an object to be made out to themselves before 
they can comprehend it. 

When I think of the power displayed in this 
(I will not hesitate to say) sublime print, it 
seems to me the extreme narrowness of system 
alone, and of that rage for classification, by 
which, in matters of taste at least, we are 
perpetually perplexing instead of arranging 
our ideas, that would make us concede to the 
work of Poussin above mentioned, and deny 
to this of Hogarth, the name of a grand serious 
composition. 

We are for ever deceiving ourselves with 
names and theories. We call one man a great 
historical painter, because he has taken for his 
subjects kings or great men, or transactions 
over which time has thrown a grandeur. We 
term another the painter of common life, and 
set him down in our minds for an artist of an 
inferior class, without reflecting whether the 
quantity of thought shown by the latter may 
not much more than level the distinction which 
their mere choice of subjects may seem to 
place between them ; or whether, in fact, from 
that very common life a great artist may not 
extract as deep an interest as another man 
from that which we are pleased to call history. 

I entertain the highest respect for the talents 
and virtues of Reynolds, but I do not like that 
his reputation should overshadow and stifle the 
merits of such a man as Hogarth, nor that to 
mere names and classifications we should be 
content to sacrifice one of the greatest orna- 
ments of England. 



I would ask the most enthusiastic admirer 
of Reynolds, whether in the countenances of 
his Stating and Grinning Despair, which he has 
given us for the faces of Ugolino and dying 
Beaufort, there be anything comparable to 
the expression which Hogarth has put into the 
face of his broken-down rake in the last plate 
but one of the Rake's Progress*, where a letter 
from the manager is brought to him to say 
that his play " will not do ?" Here all is easy, 
natural, undistorted, but withal what a mass of 
woe is here accumulated ! — the long history of 
a mis-spent life is compressed into the counte- 
nance as plainly as the series of plates before 
nad told it ; here is no attempt at Gorgonian 
looks which are to freeze the beholder, no 
grinning at the antique bedposts, no face- 
making, or consciousness of the presence of 
spectators in or out of the picture, but grief 
kept to a man's self, a face retiring from notice 
with the shame which great anguish some- 
times brings with it, — a final leave taken of 
hope, — the coming on of vacancy and stupe- 
faction, — a beginning alienation of mind look- 
ing like tranquillity. Here is matter for the 
mind of the beholder to feed on for the hour 
together, — matter to feed and fertilise the 
mind. It is too real to admit one thought 
about the power of the artist who did it. — 
When we compare the expression in subjects 
which so fairly admit of comparison, and find 
the superiority so clearly to remain with 
Hogarth, shall the mere contemptible differ- 
ence of the scene of it being laid in the one 
case in our Fleet or King's Bench Prison, and 
in the other in the State Prison of Pisa, or the 
bed-room of a cardinal, — or that the subject of 
the one has never been authenticated, and the 
other is matter of history, — so weigh down the 
real points of the comparison, as to induce us 
to rank the artist who has chosen the one 
scene or subject (though confessedly inferior 
in that which constitutes the soul of his art) 
in a class from which we exclude the better 
genius (who has happened to make choice of 
the other) with something like disgracef ? 

* The first perhaps in all Hogarth for serious expression. 
That which comes next to it, I think, is the jaded morn- 
ing countenance of the debauchee in the second plate of 
the Marriage Alamodc, which lectures on the vanity of 
pleasure as audibly as anything in Ecclesiastes. 

t Sir Joshua Reynolds, somewhere in his Lectures, 
speaks of the presumption of Hogarth in attempting the 



ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH. 



51 



The Boys under Demoniacal Possession of Ra- 
phael and Domenichino, by what law of classi- 
fication are we bound to assign them to belong 
to the great style in painting, and to degrade 
into an inferior class the Rake of Hogarth 
when he is the Madman in the Bedlam scene ? 
I am sure he is far more impressive than either. 
It is a face which no one that has seen can 
easily forget. There is the stretch of human 
suffering to the utmost endurance, severe bodily 
pain brought on by strong mental agony, the 
frightful obstinate laugh of madness, — yet all 
so unforced and natmal, that those who never 
were witness to madness in real life, think 
they see nothing but what is familiar to them 
in this face. Here are no tricks of distortion, 
nothing but the natural face of agony. This 
is high tragic painting, and we might as well 
deny to Shak^peare the honours of a great 
tragedian, because he has interwoven scenes 
of mirth with the serious business of his plays, 
as refuse to Hogarth the same praise for the 
two concluding scenes of the Rake's Progress, 
because of the Comic Lunatics * which he has 
thrown into the one, or the Alchymist that he 



grand style in painting, by which he means his choice 
of certain Scripture subjects. Hogarth's excursions into 
Holy Land were not very numerous, but what he has left 
us in this kind have at least this merit, that they have 
expression of some sort or other in them, — the Child 
Moses before Pharaoh's Daughter, for instance : which is 
more than can be said of Sir Joshua Reynolds's Repose 
in Egypt, painted for Macklin's Bible, where for a Ma- 
donna be has substituted a sleepy, insensible, unmotherly 
girl, one so little worthy to have been selected as the 
Mother of the Saviour, that she seems to have neither 
heart nor feeling to entitle her to become a mother at all. 
But indeed the race of Virgin Mary painters seems to 
have been out up, root and branch, at the Reformation. 
Our artists are too good Protestants to give life to that 
admirable commixture of maternal tenderness with reve- 
rential awe and wonder approaching to worship, with 
which the Virgin Mothers of L. da Vinci and Raphael 
(themselves by their divine countenances inviting men to 
worship) contemplate the union of the two natures in the 
person of their Heaven-born Infant. 

* There are of madmen, as there are of tame, 
All humour'd not alike. We have here some, 
So apish and fantastic, play with a feather ; 
And though 'twould grieve a soul to see God's image 
So blemish 'd and defac'd, yet do they act 
Such antick and such pretty lunacies, 
That, spite of sorrow, they will make you smile. 
Others again we have, like angry lions, 
Pierce as wild bulls, untameable as flies. 

Honest Whore. 



has introduced in the other, who is paddling 
in the coals of his furnace, keeping alive the 
flames of vain hope within the very walls of 
the prison to which the vanity has conducted 
him, which have taught the darker lesson of 
extinguished hope to the desponding figure 
who is the principal person of the scene. 

It is the force of these kindly admixtures, 
which assimilates the scenes of Hogarth and 
of Shakspeare to the drama of real life, where 
no such thing as pure tragedy is to be found ; 
but merriment and infelicity, ponderous crime 
and feather-light vanity, like twi-formed births, 
disagreeing complexions of one intertexture, 
perpetually unite to show forth motley specta- 
cles to the world. Then it is that the poet or 
painter shows his art, when in the selection of 
these comic adjuncts he chooses such circum- 
stances as shall relieve, contrast with, or fall 
into, without forming a violent opposition to 
his principal object. Who sees not that the 
Grave-digger in Hamlet, the Fool in Lear, have 
a kind of correspondency to, and fall in with, 
the subjects which they seem to interrupt : 
while the comic stuff in Venice Preserved, and 
the doggrel nonsense of the Cook and his 
poisoning associates in the Polio of Beaumont 
and Fletcher, are pure, irrelevant, impertinent 
discords, — as bad as the quarrelling dog and 
cat under the table of the Lord and the Disci 
pies at Emmam of Titian ? 

Not to tire the reader with perpetual refer- 
ence to prints which he may not be fortunate 
enough to possess, it may be sufficient to re- 
mark, that the same tragic cast of expression 
and incident, blended in some instances with a 
greater alloy of comedy, characterises his other 
great work, the Marriage Alamode, as well as 
those less elaborate exertions of his genius, 
the prints called Industry and Idleness, the Dis- 
trest Poet, &c. forming, with the Harlot's and 
Pake's Progresses, the most considerable if not 
the largest class of his productions,— enough 
surely to rescue Hogarth from the imputation 
of being a mere buffoon, or one whose general 
aim was only to shake the sides. 

There remains a very numerous class of his 
performances, the object of which must be 
confessed to be principally comic. But in all 
of them will be foUnd something to distinguish 
them from the droll productions of Bunbury 
and others. They have this difference, that 



52 



ESSAYS. 



we do not merely laugh at, we are led into 
long trains of reflection by them. In this 
respect they resemble the characters of Chau- 
cer's Pilgrims, which have strokes of humour 
in them enough to designate them for the most 
part as comic, but our strongest feeling still is 
wonder at the comprehensiveness of genius 
which could crowd, as poet and painter have 
done, into one small canvas so many diverse 
yet co-operating materials. 

The faces of Hogarth have not a mere mo- 
mentary interest, as in caricatures, or those 
grotesque physiognomies which we sometimes 
catch a glance of in the street, and, struck with 
their whimsicality, wish for a pencil and the 
power to sketch them down ; and forget them 
again as rapidly,— but they are permanent 
abiding ideas. Not the sports of nature, but 
her necessary eternal classes. "We feel that we 
cannot part with any of them, lest a link should 
be broken. 

It is worthy of observation, that he has 
seldom drawn a mean or insignificant coun- 
tenance*. Hogarth's mind was eminently 
reflective ; and, as it has been well observed 
of Shakspeare, that he has transfused his own 
poetical character into the persons of his 
drama (they are all more or less poets) Hogarth 
has impressed a thinking character upon the per- 
sons of his canvas. This remark must not be 
taken universally. The exquisite idiotism of 
the little gentleman in the bag and sword beat- 
ing his drum in the print of the Enraged Musi- 
cian, would of itself rise up against so sweeping 
an assertion. But I think it will be found to 
be true of the generality of his countenances. 
The knife-grinder and Jew flute-player in the 
plate just mentioned, may serve as instances 
instead of a thousand. They have intense 
thinking faces, though the purpose to which 
they are subservient by no means required it ; 
but indeed it seems as if it was painful to 
Hogarth to contemplate mere vacancy or in- 
significance. 

This reflection of the artist's own intellect 

* If there are any of that description, they are in his 
Strolling Players, a print which has been cried up by 
Lord Orford as the richest of his productions, and it may 
be, for what I know, in the mere lumber, the properties, 
and dead furniture of the scene, but in living character 
and expression it is (for Hogarth) lamentably poor and 
wanting ; it is perhaps the only one of his performances 
at which we have a right to feel disgusted. 



from the faces of his characters, is one reason 
why the works of Hogarth, so much more 
than those of any other artist, are objects of 
meditation. Our intellectual natures love the 
mirror which gives them back their own like- 
nesses. The mental eye will not bend long 
with delight upon vacancy. 

Another line of eternal separation between 
Hogarth and the common painters of droll or 
burlesque subjects, with whom he is often con- 
founded, is the sense of beauty, which in the 
most unpromising subjects seems never wholly 
to have deserted him. "Hogarth himself," 
says Mr. Coleridge t, from whom I have 
borrowed this observation, speaking of a scene 
which took place at Ratzeburg, " never drew 
a more ludicrous distortion, both of attitude 
and physiognomy, than this effect occasioned : 
nor was there wanting beside it one of those 
beautiful female faces which the same Hogarth, 
in whom the satirist never extinguished that love oj 
beauty which belonged to him as a poet, so often and 
so gladly introduces as the central figure in a 
crowd of humorous deformities, which figure 
(such is the power of true genius) neither acts 
nor is meant to act as a contrast ; but diffuses 
through all and over each of the group a spirit 
of reconciliation and human kindness ; and 
even when the attention is no longer consciously 
directed to the cause of this feeling, still blends 
its tenderness with our laughter : and thus pre- 
vents the instructive merriment at the whims of nature, 
or the foibles or humours of our fellow-men, from 
degenerating into the heart-poison of contempt or 
hatred" To the beautiful females in Hogarth, 
which Mr. C. has pointed out, might be added, 
the frequent introduction of children (which 
Hogarth seems to have taken a particular 
delight in) into his pieces. They have a sin- 
gular effect in giving tranquillity and a portion 
of their own innocence* to the subject. The 
baby riding in its mother's lap in the March to 
Finchley, (its careless innocent face placed 
directly behind the intriguing time-furrowed 
countenance of the treason-plotting French 
priest,) perfectly sobers the whole of that 
tumultuous scene. The boy mourner winding 
up his top with so much unpretending insensi- 
bility in the plate of the Harlot's Funeral, (the 
only thing in that assembly that is not a hypo- 
crite,) quiets and soothes the mind that has 
t The Friend, No. XVI. 



ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH. 



been disturbed at the sight of so much depraved 
man and woman kind. 

I had written thus far, when I met with a pas- 
sage in the writings of the late Mr. Barry, which, 
as it falls in with the vulgar notion respecting 
Hogarth, which this Essay has been employed in 
combating, I shall take the liberty to transcribe, 
with such remarks as may suggest themselves to 
me in the transcription ; refering the reader for 
a full answer to that which has gone before. 

" Notwithstanding Hogarth's merit does undoubtedly 
entitle him to an honourable place among the artists, and 
that his little compositions, considered as so many dra- 
matic representations, abounding with humour, character, 
and extensive observations on the various incidents of 
low, faulty, and vicious life, are very ingeniously brought 
together, and frequently tell their own story with more 
facility than is often found in many of the elevated and 
more noble inventions of Raphael and other great men ; 
yet it must be honestly confessed, that in what is called 
knowledge of the figure, foreigners have justly observed, 
that Hogarth is often so raw and unformed, as hardly to 
deserve the name of an artist. But this capital defect 
is not often perceivable, as examples of the naked and 
of elevated nature but rarely occur in his subjects, which 
are for the most part filled with characters that in their 
nature tend to deformity ; besides, his figures are small, 
and the jonctures, and other difficulties of drawing that 
might occur in their limbs, are artfully concealed with 
their clothes, rags, &c. But what would atone for all 
his defects, even if they were twice told, is his admirable 
fund of invention, ever inexhaustible in its resources; 
and his satyr, which is always sharp and pertinent, and 
often highly moral, was (except in a few instances, where 
he weakly and meanly suffered his integrity to give way 
to his envy) seldom or never employed in a dishonest or 
unmanly way. Hogarth has been often imitated in his 
satirical vein, sometimes in his humorous : but very few 
have attempted to rival him in his moral walk. The line 
of art pursued by my very ingenious predecessor and 
brother academician, Mr. Penny, is quite distinct from 
that of Hogarth, and is of a much more delicate and supe- 
rior relish ; he attempts the heart, and reaches it, whilst 
Hogarth's general aim is only to shake the sides ; in other 
respects no comparison can be thought of, as Mr, Penny 
has all that knowledge of the figure and academical skill 
which the other wanted. As to Mr. Bunbury, who had 
so happily succeeded in the vein of humour and caricatura, 
he has for some time past altogether relinquished it, for 
the more amiable pursuit of beautiful nature : this, indeed, 
is not to be wondered at, when we recollect that he has, 
in Mrs. Bunbury, so admirable an exemplar of the most 
finished grace and beauty continually at his elbow. But 
(to say all that occurs to me on this subject) perhaps it 
may be reasonably doubted, whether the being much con- 
versant with Hogarth's method of exposing meanness, 
deformity, and vice, in many of his works, is not rather 
a dangerous, or, at least, a worthless pursuit ; which, if it 
does not find a false relish and a love of and search after 



satyr and buffoonery in the spectator, is at least not un- 
likely to give him one. Life is short ; and the little 
leisure of it is much better laid out upon that species of 
art which is employed about the amiable and the admira- 
ble, as it is more likely to be attended with better and 
nobler consequences to ourselves. These two pursuits in 
art may be compared with two sets of people with whom 
we might associate ; if we give ourselves up to the Footes, 
the Kenricks, &c. we shall be continually busied and 
paddling in whatever is ridiculous, faulty, and vicious in 
life ; whereas there are those to be found, with whom we 
should be in the constant pursuit and study of all that 
gives a value and a dignity to human nature." [Account 
of a Series of Pictures in the Great Room of the Society 
of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce, at the Adelphi, 
by James Barry, R. A., Professor of Painting to the Royal 
Academy; reprinted in the last quarto edition of his 
works.] 

" 1 It must be honestly confessed, that in what is 

called knowledge of the figure, foreigners have justly ob- 
served," &c. 

It is a secret well known to the professors 
of the art and mystery of criticism, to insist 
upon what they do not find in a man's works, 
and to pass over in silence what they do. That 
Hogarth did not draw the naked figure so well 
as Michael Angelo might be allowed, especially 
as " examples of the naked," as Mr. Barry ac- 
knowledges, "rarely (he might almost have 
said never) occur in his subjects ;" and that 
his figures under their draperies do not discover 
all the fine graces of an Antinoiis or an Apollo, 
may be conceded likewise ; perhaps it was 
more suitable to his purpose to represent the 
average forms of mankind in the mediocrity 
(as Mr. Burke expresses it) of the age in which 
he lived : but that his figures in general, and 
in his best subjects, are so glaringly incorrect 
as is here insinuated, I dare trust my own 
eye so far as positively to deny the fact. And 
there is one part of the figure in which Hogarth 
is allowed to have excelled, which these 
foreigners seem to have overlooked, or perhaps 
calculating from its proportion to the whole (a 
seventh or an eighth, I forget which), deemed 
it of trifling importance ; I mean the human 
face ; a small part, reckoning by geographical 
inches, in the map of man's body, but here 
it is that the painter of expression must con- 
dense the wonders of his skill, even at the ex- 
pense of neglecting the "jonctures and other 
difficulties of drawing in the limbs," which it 
must be a cold eye that, in the interest so 
strongly demanded by Hogarth's countenances, 
has leisure to survey and censure. 



54 



ESSAYS. 



" The line of art p.ur-sued by my very ingenious predeces- 
sor and brother academician. Mr. Penny." 

The first impression caused in me by reading 
this passage was an eager desire to know who 
this Mr. Penny was. This great surpasser of 
Hogarth in the " delicacy of his relish," and 
the " line which he pursued," where is he, 
what are his works, what has he to show ? In 
vain I tried to recollect, till by happily putting 
the question to a friend who is more conver- 
sant in the works of the illustrious obscure 
than myself, I learnt that he was the painter 
of a Death of Wolfe which missed the prize the 
year that the celebrated picture of West on 
the same subject obtained it ; that he also 
made a picture of the Marquis of Granby relieving 
a Sick Soldier ; moreover, that he was the in- 
ventor of two pictures of Suspended and Restored 
Animation, which I now remember to have 
seen in the Exhibition some years since, and 
the prints from which are still extant in good 
men's houses. This then I suppose is the line 
of subjects in which Mr. Penny was so much 
superior to Hogarth. I confess I am not of 
that opinion. The relieving of poverty by the 
purse, and the restoring a young man to his 
parents by using the methods prescribed by 
the Humane Society) are doubtless very 
amiable subjects, pretty things to teach the 
first rudiments of humanity ; they amount to 
about as much instruction as the stories of 
good boys that give away their custards to 
poor beggar-boys in children's books. But, 
good God ! is this milk for babes to be set up in 
opposition to Hogarth's moral scenes, his strong 
meat for men ?- As well might we prefer the 
fulsome verses upon their own goodness to 
which the gentlemen of the Literary Fund 
annually sit still with such shameless patience 
to listen, to the satires of Juvenal and Persius ; 
because the former are full of tender images 
of Worth relieved by Charity, and Charity 
stretching out her hand to rescue sinking 
Genius, and the theme of the latter is men's 
crimes and follies with their black consequences 
— forgetful meanwhile of those strains of moral 
pathos, those sublime heart-touches, which 
these poets (in them chiefly showing themselves 
poets) are perpetually darting across the other- 
wise appalling gloom of their subject — conso- 
latory remembrancers, when their pictures of 
guilty mankind have made us even to despair 



for our species, that there is such a thing as 
virtue and moral dignity in the world, that her 
unquenchable spark is not utterly out — re- 
freshing admonitions, to which we turn for 
shelter from the too great heat and asperity 
of the general satire. 

And is there nothing analogous to this in 
Hogarth ? nothing which " attempts and 
reaches the heart ? " — no aim beyond that of 
"shaking the sides ?" — If the kneeling minis- 
tering female in the last scene of the Rake's Pro- 
gress, the Bedlam scene, of which I have spoken 
before, and have dared almost to parallel 
it with the most absolute idea of Virtue which 
Shakspeare has left us, be not enough to dis- 
prove the assertion ; if the sad endings of the 
Harlot and the Rake, the passionate heart- 
bleeding entreaties for forgiveness which the 
adulterous wife is pouring forth to her assassin- 
ated and dying lord in the last scene but one of 
the Marriage Alamode, — if these be not things to 
touch the heart, and dispose the mind to a 
meditative tenderness : is there nothingsweetly 
conciliatory in the mild patient face and ges- 
ture with which the wife seems to allay and 
ventilate the feverish irritated feelings of her 
poor poverty-distracted mate (the true copy of 
the genus irritabile) in the print of the Distrest 
Poet ? or if an image of maternal love be re- 
quired, where shall we find a sublimer view of 
it than in that aged woman in Industry and 
Idleness (plate V.) who is clinging with the 
fondness of hope not quite extinguished to her 
brutal vice-hardened child, whom she is ac- 
companying to the ship which is to bear him 
away from his native soil, of which he has been 
adjudged unworthy : in whose shocking face 
every trace of the human countenance seems 
obliterated, and a brute beast's to be left 
instead, shocking and repulsive to all but her 
who watched over it in its cradle before it was 
so sadly altered, and feels it must belong to 
her while a pulse by the vindictive laws of his 
country shall be suffered to continue to beat 
in it. Compared with such things, what is Mr. 
Penny's "knowledge of the figure and aca- 
demical skill which Hogarth wanted ?" 

With respect to what follows concerning 

another gentleman, with the congratulations 

to him on his escape out of the regions of 

" humour and caricatura," in which it appears 

j he was in danger of travelling side by side 



ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH. 



55 



with Hogarth, I can only congratulate my 
country, that Mrs. Hogarth knew her province 
better than, by disturbing her husband at his 
palette, to divert him from that universality 
of subject, which has stamped him perhaps, 
next to Shakspeare, the most inventive genius 
which this island has produced, into the 
"amiable pursuit of beautiful nature," i. e. 
copying ad infinitum the individual charms 
and graces of Mrs. H. 

" Hogarth's method of exposing meanness, deformity, 
and vice, paddling in whatever is ridiculous, faulty, and 
vicious." 

A person unacquainted with the works thus 
stigmatised would be apt to imagine that in 
Hogarth there was nothing else to be found 
but subjects of the coarsest and most repulsive 
nature. That his imagination was naturally 
unsweet, and that he delighted in raking into 
every species of moral filth. That he preyed 
upon sore places only, and took a pleasure 
in exposing the unsound and rotten parts of 
human nature : — whereas, with the exception 
of some of the plates of the Harlot's Progress, 
which are harder in their character than any 
of the rest of his productions, (the Stages of 
Cruelty I omit as mere worthless caricaturas, 
foreign to his general habits, the offspring of 
his fancy in some wayward humour,) there is 
scarce one of his pieces where vice is most 
strongly satirised, in which some figure is not 
introduced upon which the moral eye may rest 
satisfied ; a face that indicates goodness, or 
perhaps mere good humouredness and careless- 
ness of mind (negation of evil) only, yet enough 
to give a relaxation to the frowning brow of 
satire, and keep the general air from tainting. 
Take the mild, supplicating posture of patient 
Poverty in the poor woman that is persuading 
the pawnbroker to accept her clothes in pledge, 
in the plate of Gin Lane, for an instance. A little 
does it, a little of the good nature overpowers 
a world of bad. One cordial honest laugh of a 
Tom Jones absolutely clears the atmosphere 
that was reeking with the black putrifying 
breathings of a hypocrite Blifil. One homely 
expostulating shrug from Strap warms the 
whole air which the suggestions of a gentle- 
manly ingratitude from his friend Random had 
begun to freeze. One " Lord bless us !" of 
Parson Adams upon the wickedness of the 
times, exorcises and purges off the mass of 



iniquity which the world-knowledge of even a 
Fielding could cull out and rake together. 
But of the severer class of Hogarth's perform- 
ances, enough, I trust, has been said to show 
that they do not merely shock and repulse ; 
that there is in them the " scorn of vice" and 
the " pity" too ; something to touch the heart, 
and keep alive the sense of moral beauty ; the 
" lacrymse rerum," and the sorrowing by 
which the heart is made better. If they be 
bad things, then is satire and tragedy a bad 
thing ; let us proclaim at once an age of gold, 
and sink the existence of vice and misery in 
our speculations : let us 

wink, and shut our apprehensions up 

From common sense of what men were and are : 

let us make believe with the children, that every 
body is good and happy ; and, with Dr. Swift, 
write panegyrics upon the world. 

But that larger half of Hogarth's works, 
which were painted more for entertainment 
than instruction (though such was the sugges- 
tiveness of his mind that there is always 
something to be learnt from them), his humor- 
ous scenes, — are they such as merely to disgust 
and set us against our species ? 

The confident assertions of such a man as I 
consider the late Mr. Barry to have been, have 
that weight of authority in them which staggers 
at first hearing, even a long preconceived 
opinion. When I read his pathetic admonition 
concerning the shortness of life, and how much 
better the little leisure of it were laid out upon 
" that species of art which is employed about 
the amiable and the admirable ;" and Ho- 
garth's " method," proscribed as a " dangerous 
or worthless pursuit," I began to think there 
was something in it ; that I might have been 
indulging all my life a passion for the works of 
this artist, to the utter prejudice of my taste 
and moral sense ; but my first convictions 
gradually returned, a world of good-natured 
English faces came up one by one to my re- 
collection, and a glance at the matchless Election 
Entertainment, which I have the happiness to 
have hanging up in my parlour, subverted Mr. 
Barry's whole theory in an instant. 

In that inimitable print, (which in my judg- 
ment as far exceeds the more known and cele- 
brated March to Finchley, as the best comedy 
exceeds the best farce that ever was written,) 
let a nerson look till he be saturated, and when 



5G 



ESSAYS. 



he has done wondering at the inventiveness 
of genius which could bring so many characters 
(more than thirty distinct classes of face) into 
a room and set them down at table together, 
or otherwise dispose them about, in so natural 
a manner, engage them in so many easy sets 
and occupations, yet all partaking of the spirit 
of the occasion which brought them together, 
so that we feel that nothing but an election 
time could have assembled them ; having no 
central figure or principal group, (for the hero 
of the piece, the Candidate, is properly set 
aside in the levelling indistinction of the day, 
one must look for him to find him,) nothing to 
detain the eye from passing from part to part, 
where every part is alike instinct with life, — 
for here are no furniture-faces, no figures 
brought in to fill up the scene like stage 
choruses, but all dramatis personse : when he 
shall have done wondering at all these faces 
so strongly charactered, yet finished with the 
accuracy of the finest miniature ; when he 
shall have done admiring the numberless ap- 
pendages of the scene, those gratuitous doles 
which rich genius flings into the heap when it 
has already done enough, the over-measure 
which it delights in giving, as if it felt its stores 
were exhaustless ; the dumb rhetoric of the 
scenery — for tables, and chairs, and joint-stools 
in Hogarth are living and significant things ; 
the witticisms that are expressed by words, 
(all artists but Hogarth have failed when they 
have endeavoured to combine two mediums of 
expression, and have introduced words into 
their pictures,) and the unwritten numberless 
little allusive pleasantries that are scattered 
about ; the work that is going on in the scene, 
and beyond it, as is made visible to the " eye of 
mind," by the mob which chokes up the door- 
way, and the sword that has forced an entrance 
before its master : when he shall have suf- 
ficiently admired this wealth of genius, let him 
fairly say what is the result left on his mind. 
Is it an impression of the vileness and worth- 
lessness of his species ? or is not the general 
feeling which remains, after the individual 
faces have ceased to act sensibly on his mind, 
a kindly one in favour of his species 1 was not the 
general air of the scene wholesome ? did it do 
the heart hurt to be among it ? Something of a 
riotous spirit to be sure is there, some worldly- 
mindedness in some of the faces, a Dodding- 



tonian smoothness which does not promise any 
superfluous degree of sincerity in the fine 
gentleman who has been the occasion of calling 
so much good company together : but is not 
the general cast of expression in the faces of 
the good sort ? do they not seem cut out of the 
good old rock, substantial English honesty ! 
would one fear treachery among characters of 
their expression ? or shall we call their honest 
mirth and seldom-returning relaxation by the 
hard names of vice and profligacy ? That poor 
country fellow, that is grasping his staff (which 
from that difficulty of feeling themselves at home 
which poor men experience at a feast, he has 
never parted with since he came into the 
room), and is enjoying with a relish that seems 
to fit all the capacities of his soul the slender 
joke, which that facetious wag his neighbour 
is practising upon the gouty gentleman, whose 
eyes the effort to suppress pain has made as 
round as rings — does it shock the " dignity of 
human nature" to look at that man, and to 
sympathise with him in the seldom-heard joke 
"which has unbent his care-worn, hard-working 
visage, and drawn iron smiles from it ? or 
with that full-hearted cobbler, who is honour- 
ing with the grasp of an honest fist the unused 
palm of that annoyed patrician, whom the 
licence of the time has seated next him. 

I can see nothing " dangerous " in the con- 
templation of such scenes as this, or the 
Enraged Musician, or the Southwark Fair, or 
twenty other pleasant prints which come 
crowding in upon my recollection, in which 
the restless activities, the diversified bents and 
humours, the blameless peculiarities of men, 
as they deserve to be called, rather than their 
" vices and follies," are held up in a laughable 
point of view. All laughter is not of a danger- 
ous or soul-hardening tendency. There is the 
petrifying sneer of a demon which excludes 
and kills Love, and there is the cordial laughtei 
of a man which implies and cherishes it. What 
heart was ever made the worse by joining in 
a hearty laugh at the simplicities of Sir Hugh 
Evans or Parson Adams, where a sense of the 
ridiculous mutually kindles and is kindled by 
a perception of the amiable ? That tumultuous 
harmony of singers that are roaring out the 
words, " The world shall bow to the Assyrian 
throne," from the opera of Judith, in the third 
plate of the series called the Four Groups of 



ON THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER. 



57 



Heads ; which the quick eye of Hogarth must 
have struck off in the very infancy of the rage 
for sacred oratorios in this country, while 
" Music yet was young ;" when we have done 
smiling at the deafening distortions, which 
these tearers of devotion to rags and tatters, 
these takers of heaven by storm, in their 
boisterous mimicry of the occupation of angels, 
are making, — what unkindly impression is left 
behind, or what more of harsh or contemptuous 
feeling, than when we quietly leave Uncle Toby 
and Mr. Shandy riding their hobby-horses 
about the room ? The conceited, long-backed 
Sign-painter, that with all the self-applause of 
a Raphael or Correggio (the twist of body 
which his conceit has thrown him into has 
something of the Correggiesque in it) is con- 
templating the picture of a bottle which he is 
drawing from an actual bottle that hangs beside 
him, in the print of Beer Street, — while we smile 
at the enormity of the self-delusion, can we 
help loving the good-humour and self-compla- 



cency of the fellow ? would we willingly wake 
him from his dream ? 

I say not that all the ridiculous subjects of 
Hogarth have necessarily something in them 
to make us like them ; some are indifferent to 
us, some in their natures repulsive, and only 
made interesting by the wonderful skill and 
truth to nature in the painter ; but I contend 
that there is in most of them that sprinkling 
of the better nature, which, like holy water, 
chases away and disperses the contagion of 
the bad. They have this in them besides, that 
they bring us acquainted with the every-day 
human face, — they give us skill to detect those 
gradations of sense and virtue (which escape the 
careless or fastidious observer) in the counte- 
nances of the world about us ; and prevent that 
disgust at common life, that tcedium quotidiana- 
rum formarum, which an unrestricted passion for 
ideal forms and beauties is in danger of produc- 
ing. In this, as in many other things, they are ana- 
logous to the best novels of Smollett or Fielding. 



ON THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER. 



The poems of G. Wither are distinguished 
by a hearty homeliness of manner, and a plain 
moral speaking. He seems to have passed his 
life in one continued act of an innocent self- 
pleasing. That which he calls his Motto is a 
continued self-eulogy of two thousand lines, 
yet we read it to the end without any feeling 
of distaste, almost without a consciousness 
that we have been listening all the while to a 
man praising himself. There are none of the 
cold particles in it, the hardness and self- 
ends, which render vanity and egotism hateful. 
He seems to be praising another person, under 
the mask of self : or rather we feel that it was 
indifferent to him where he found the virtue 
which he celebrates ; whether another's bosom 
or his own were its chosen receptacle. His 
poems are full, and this in particular is one 
downright confession, of a generous self-seek- 
ing. But by selfhe sometimes means a great 
deal, — his friends, his principles, his country, 
the human race. 

Whoever expects to find in the satirical 



pieces of this writer any of those peculiarities 
which pleased him in the satires of Dryden or 
Pope, will be grievously disappointed. Here 
are no high-finished characters, no nice traits 
of individual nature, few or no personalities. 
The game run down is coarse general vice, or 
folly as it appears in classes. A liar, a drunkard, 
a coxcomb, is stript and whijot ; no Shaftesbury, 
no Yilliers, or Wharton, is curiously anato- 
mised, and read upon. But to a well-natured 
mind there is a charm of moral sensibility run- 
ning through them which amply compensates 
the want of those luxuries. Wither seems 
everywhere bursting with a love of goodness, 
and a hatred of all low and base actions. — At 
this day it is hard to discover what parts in 
the poem here particularly alluded to, Abuses 
Stript and Whipt, could have occasioned the 
imprisonment of the author. Was Vice in 
High Places more suspicious than now ? had 
she more power ; or more leisure to listen 
after ill reports ? That a man should be con- 
victed of a libel when he named no names but 



58 



ESSAYS. 



Hate, and Envy, and Lust, and Avarice, is 
like one of the indictments in the Pilgrim's 
Progress, where Faithful is arraigned for 
having a railed on our noble Prince Beelzebub, 
and spoken contemptibly of his honourable 
friends, the Lord Old Man, the Lord Carnal 
Delight, and the Lord Luxurious." "What 
unlucky jealousy could have tempted the great 
men of those days to appropriate such innocent 
abstractions to themselves ? 

Wither seems to have contemplated to a 
degree of idolatry his own possible virtue. 
He is for ever anticipating persecution and 
martyrdom ; fingering as it were the flames, 
to try how he can bear them. Perhaps his 
premature defiance sometimes made him 
obnoxious to censuies which he would other- 
wise have slipped by. 

The homely versification of these Satires is 
not likely to attract in the present day. It is 
certainly not such as we should expect from a 
poet " soaring in the high region of his fancies 
with his garland and his singing robes about 
him* ;" nor is it such as he has shown in his 
Philarete, and in some parts of his Shepherds 
Hunting. He seems to have adopted this dress 
with voluntary humility, as fittest for a moral 
teacher, as our divines choose sober grey or 
black ; but in their humility consists their 
sweetness. The deepest tone of moral feeling 
in them (though all throughout is weighty, 
earnest, and passionate) is in those pathetic 
injunctions against shedding of blood in quar- 
rels, in the chapter entitled Revenge. The 
story of his own forbearance, which follows, 
is highly interesting. "While the Christian 
sings his own victory over Anger, the Man of 
Courage cannot help peeping out to let you 
know, that it was some higher principle than 
fear which counselled this forbearance. 

"Whether encaged, or roaming at liberty, 
Wither never seems to have abated a jot of 
that free spirit which sets its mark upon his 
writings, as much as a predominant feature of 
independence impresses every page of our late 
glorious Burns ; but the elder poet wraps his 
proof-armour closer about him, the other wears 
his too much outwards ; he is thinking too 
much of annoying the foe, to be quite easy 
within ; the spiritual defences of Wither are 
a perpetual source of inward sunshine, the 
* Milton. 



magnanimity of the modern is not without its 
alloy of soreness, and a sense of injustice, 
which seems perpetually to gall and irritate. 
Wither was better skilled in the " sweet uses 
of adversity ;" he knew how to extract the 
" precious jewel" from the head of the " toad," 
without drawing any of the "ugly venom" 
along with it. — The prison notes of Wither 
are finer than the wood notes of most of his 
poetical brethren. The description in the 
Fourth Eclogue of his Shepherds Hunting (which 
was composed during his imprisonment in the 
Marshalsea) of the power of the Muse to 
extract pleasure from common objects, has 
been oftener quoted, and is more known, than 
any part of his writings. Indeed the whole 
Eclogue is in a strain so much above not only 
what himself, but almost what any other poet 
has written, that he himself could not help 
noticing it ; he remarks, that his spirits had 
been raised higher than they were wont 
" through the love of poesy." — The praises of 
Poetry have been often sung in ancient and 
in modern times ; strange powers have been 
ascribed to it of influence over animate and 
inanimate auditors ; its force over fascinated 
crowds has been acknowledged ; but, before 
Wither, no one ever celebrated its power at 
home, the wealth and the strength which this 
divine gift confers upon its possessor. Fame, 
and that too after death, was all which hitherto 
the poets had promised themselves from their 
art. It seems to have been left to Wither to 
discover, that poetry was a present possession, 
as well as a rich reversion, and that the Muse 
had promise of both lives, — of this, and of that 
which was to come. 

The Mistress of Philarete is in substance a 
panegyric protracted through several thousand 
lines in the mouth of a single speaker, but 
diversified, so as to produce an almost dramatic 
effect, by the artful introduction of some ladies, 
who are rather auditors than interlocutors in I 
the scene ; and of a boy, whose singing fur- J 
nishes pretence for an occasional change of j 
metre : though the seven-syllable line, in j 
which the main part of it is written, is that in 
which Wither has shown himself so great a 
master, that I do not know^hat I am always 
thankful to him for the exchange. 

Wither has chosen to bestow upon the lady 
whom he commends the name of Arete, or 



ON THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER. 



59 



Virtue ; and, assuming to himself the charac- 
ter of Philarete, or Lover of Virtue, there is a 
sort of propriety in that heaped measure of 
perfections which he attributes to this partly- 
real, partly allegorical personage. Drayton 
before him had shadowed his mistress under 
the name of Idea, or Perfect Pattern, and some 
of the old Italian love-strains are couched in 
such religious terms as to make it doubtful 
whether it be a mistress, or Divine Grace, 
which the poet is addressing. 

In this poem (full of beauties) there are two 
passages of pre-eminent merit. The first is 
where the lover, after a flight of rapturous 
commendation, expresses his wonder why all 
men that are about his mistress, even to her 
very servants, do not view her with the same 
eyes that he does. 

Sometime I do admire 

All men burn not with desire : 

Nay, I muse her servants are not 

Pleading love ; but ! they dare not. 

And I therefore wonder, why 

They do not grow sick and die. 

Sure they would do so, but that, 

By the ordinance of fate, 

There is some concealed thing, 

So each gazer limiting, 

He can see no more of merit, 

Than beseems his worth and spirit. 

For in her a grace there shines, 

That o'er-daring thoughts confines, 

Making worthless men despair 

To be loved of one so fair. 

Yea, the destinies agree, 

Some good judgments blind should be, 

And not gain the power of knowing 

Those rare beauties in her growing. 

Reason doth as much imply : 

For, if every judging eye, 

Which beholdeth her, should there 

Find what excellencies are, 

All, o'ercome by those perfections, 

"Would be captive to affections. 

So, in happiness unblest, 

She for lovers should not rest. 

The other is, where he has been comparing 
her beauties to gold, and stars, and the most 
excellent things in nature ; and, fearing to be 
accused of hyperbole, the common charge 
against poets, vindicates himself by boldly 
taking upon him, that these comparisons are 
no hyperboles ; but that the best things in 
nature do, in a lover's eye, fall short of those 
excellencies which he adores in her. 
What pearls, what rubies can 
Seem so lovely fair to man 



As her lips whom he doth love, 
When in sweet discourse they move, 
Or her lovelier teeth, the while 
She doth bless him with a smile ? 
Stars indeed fair creatures be ; 
Yet amongst us where is he 
Joys not more the whilst he lies 
Sunning in his mistress' eyes, 
Than in all the glimmering light 
Of a starry winter's night ? 

Note the beauty of an eye 

And if aught you praise it by 
Leave such passion in your mind, 
Let my reason's eye be blind. 
Mark if ever red or white 
Any where gave such delight, 
As when they have taken place 
In a worthy woman's face. 

I must praise her as I may, 
Which I do mine own rude way, 
Sometime setting forth her glories 
By unheard of allegories &c. 

To the measure in which these lines are 
written the wits of Queen Anne's days con- 
temptuously gave the name of Namby Pamby, 
in ridicule of Ambrose Philips, who has used 
it in some instances, as in the lines on Cuzzoni, 
to my feeling at least, very deliciously ; but 
Wither, whose darling measure it seems to 
have been, may shew, that in skilful hands it 
is capable of expressing the subtilest move- 
ments of passion. So true it is, which Drayton 
seems to have felt, that it is the poet who 
modifies the metre, not the metre the poet ; in 
his own words, that 

It's possible to climb ; 
To kindle, or to stake ; 

Altho' in Skelton's rhime *. 

* A long line is a line we are long repeating. In the 
Shepherds Hunting take the following — 
If thy verse doth bravely tower, 
As she makes wing, she gets poicer ; 
Yet the higher she doth soar, 
She's affronted still the more, 
'Till she to the high'st hath past, 
Then she rests with fame at last. 

What longer measure can go beyond the majesty of 
this ! what Alexandrine is half so long in pronouncing, or 
expresses labour slowly but strongly surmounting dif- 
ficulty with the life with which it is done in the second 
of these lines ? or what metre could go beyond these, from 
Philarete— 

Her true beauty leaves behind 

Apprehensions in my mind 

Of more sweetness, than all art 

Or inventions can impart. 

Thoughts too deep to be express'd, 

And too strong to be suppress'd. 



LETTERS, 



UNDER ASSUMED SIGNATURES, PUBLISHED IN "THE REFLECTOR. 



THE LONDONER. 



TO THE EDITOR OP THE REFLECTOR. 

Mr. Reflector, — I was born under the 
shadow of St. Dunstan's steeple, just where 
the conflux of the eastern and western inhabit- 
ants of this twofold city meet and justle in 
friendly opposition at Temple-bar. The same 
day which gave me to the world, saw London 
happy in the celebration of her great annual 
feast. This I cannot help looking upon as a 
lively omen of the future great good-will which 
I was destined to bear toward the city, resem- 
bling in kind that solicitude which every Chief 
Magistrate is supposed to feel for whatever 
concerns her interests and well-being. Indeed 
I consider myself in some sort a speculative 
Lord Mayor of London : for though circum- 
stances unhappily preclude me from the hope 
of ever arriving at the dignity of a gold chain 
and Spital Sermon, yet thus much will I say 
of myself in truth, that Whittington with his 
Cat (just emblem of vigilance and a furred 
gown) never went beyond me in affection 
which I bear to the citizens. 

I was born, as you have heard, in a crowd. 
This has begot in me an entire affection for 
that way of life, amounting to an almost in- 
surmountable aversion from solitude and rural 
scenes. This aversion was never interrupted 
or suspended, except for a few years in the 
younger part of my life, during a period in 
which I had set my affections upon a charming 
young woman. Every man, while the passion 
is upon him, is for a time at least addicted to 
groves and meadows and purling streams. 
During this short period of my existence, I 



contracted just familiarity enough with rural 
objects to understand tolerably well ever after 
the poets, when they declaim in such passionate 
terms in favour of a country life. 

For my own part, now the fit is past, I have 
no hesitation in declaring, that a mob of happy 
faces crowding up at the pit door of Drury- 
lane Theatre, just at the hour of six, gives me 
ten thousand sincerer pleasures, than I could 
ever receive from all the flocks of silly sheep 
that ever whitened the plains of Arcadia or 
Epsom Downs. 

This passion for crowds is nowhere feasted 
so full as in London. The man must have a 
rare recipe for melancholy who can be dull in 
Fleet-street. I am naturally inclined to hypo- 
chondria, but in London it vanishes, like all 
other ills. Often, when I have felt a weari- 
ness or distaste at home, have I rushed out 
into her crowded Strand, and fed my humour, 
till tears have wetted my cheek for inutter- 
able sympathies with the multitudinous mov- 
ing picture, which she never fails to present 
at all hours, like the scenes of a shifting 
^pantomime. 

The very deformities of London, which give 
distaste to others, from habit do not displease 
me. The endless succession of shops where 
Fancy miscalled Folly is supplied with perpetual 
gauds and toys, excite in me no puritanical 
aversion. I gladly behold every appetite 
supplied with its proper food. The obliging 
customer, and the obliged tradesman — things 
which live by bowing, and things which exist 
but for homage — do not affect me with dis- 



ON BURIAL SOCIETIES, &c. 



61 



gust; from habit I perceive nothing but 
urbanity, where other men, more refined, 
discover meanness : I love the very smoke of 
London, because it has been the medium most 
familiar to my vision. I see grand principles 
of honour at work in the dirty ring which 
encompasses two combatants with fists, and 
principles of no less eternal justice in the 
detection of a pick-pocket. The salutary 
astonishment with which an execution is sur- 
veyed, convinces me more forcibly than a 
hundred volumes of abstract polity, that the 
universal instinct of man in all ages has leaned 
to order and good government. 

Thus an art of extracting morality from 
the commonest incidents of a town life is 



attained by the same well-natured alchymy 
with which the Foresters of Arden, in a beau- 
tiful country, 

Found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in everything. 

"Where has spleen her food but in London ! 
Humour, Interest, Curiosity, suck at her mea- 
sureless breasts without a possibility of being 
satiated. Nursed amid her noise, her crowds, 
her beloved smoke, what have I been doing 
all my life, if I have not lent out my heart 
with usury to such scenes ! 

I am, Sir, your faithful servant, 

A Londoner. 



ON BURIAL SOCIETIES; 

AND 

THE CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE REFLECTOR. 
Mr. Reflector, — I was amused the other 
day with having the following notice thrust 
into my hand by a man who gives out bills at 
the corner of Fleet-market. "Whether he saw 
any prognostics about me, that made him judge 
such notice seasonable, I cannot say ; I might 
perhaps carry in a countenance (naturally not 
very florid) traces of a fever which had not 
long left me. Those fellows have a good 
instinctive way of guessing at the sort of 
people that are likeliest to pay attention to 
their papers. 

" BURIAL SOCIETY. 
"A favourable opportunity now offers to 
any person, of either sex, who would wish to 
be buried in a genteel manner, by paying one 
shilling entrance, and two-pence per week for 
the benefit of the stock. Members to be free 
in six months. The money to be paid at Mr. 
Middleton's, at the sign of the First and the 
Last, Stonecutter's-street, Fleet-market. The 
deceased to be furnished as follows : — A strong 
elm coffin, covered with superfine black, and 
furnished with two rows, all round, close 



drove, best japanned nails, and adorned with 
ornamental drops, a handsome plate of inscrip- 
tion, Angel above, and Flower beneath, and 
four pair of handsome handles, with wrought 
gripes ; the coffin to be well pitched, lined, 
and ruffled with fine crape ; a handsome crape 
shroud, cap, and pillow. For use, a handsome 
velvet pall, three gentlemen's cloaks, three 
crape hat-bands, three hoods and scarfs, and 
six pair of gloves; two porters equipped to 
attend the funeral, a man to attend the same 
with band and gloves ; also, the burial fees 
paid, if not exceeding one guinea." 

" Man," says Sir Thomas Browne, " is a 
noble animal, splendid in ashes, and pompous 
in the grave." Whoever drew up this little 
advertisement certainly understood this appe- 
tite in the species, and has made abundant 
provision for it. It really almost induces a 
tcedium vitce upon one to read it. Methinks I 
could be willing to die, in death to be so 
attended. The two rows all round close-drove 
best black japanned nails, — how feelingly do 
they invite, and almost irresistibly persuade 
us to come and be fastened down ! what aching 
head can resist the temptation to repose, which 



= 



62 



LETTERS. 



the crape shroud, the cap, and the pillow pre- 
sent ; what sting is there in death, which the 
handles with wrought gripes are not calculated 
to pluck away? what victory in the grave, 
which the drops and the velvet pall do not 
render at least extremely disputable? but 
above all, the pretty emblematic plate with 
the Angel above and the Flower beneath, 
takes me mightily. 

The notice goes on to inform us, that though 
the society has been established but a very 
few years, upwards of eleven hundred persons 
have put down their names. It is really an 
affecting consideration to think of so many 
poor people, of the industrious and hard- 
working class (for none but such would be 
possessed of such a generous forethought) 
clubbing their twopences to save the reproach 
of a parish funeral. Many a poor fellow, I 
dare swear, has that Angel and Flower kept 
from the Angel and Punchbowl, while, to pro- 
vide himself a bier, he has curtailed himself 
of beer. Many a savoury morsel has the living 
body been deprived of, that the lifeless one 
might be served up in a richer state to the 
worms. And sure, if the body could under- 
stand the actions of the soul, and entertain 
generous notions of things, it would thank its 
provident partner, that she had been more 
solicitous to defend it from dishonours at its 
dissolution, than careful to pamper it with 
good things in the time of its union. If 
Caesar were chiefly anxious at his death how 
he might die most decently, every Burial 
Society may be considered as a club of 
Caesars. 

Nothing tends to keep up, in the imagina- 
tions of the poorer sort of people, a generous 
horror of the workhouse more than the man- 
ner in which pan per funerals are conducted in 
this metropolis. The coffin nothing but a few 
naked planks coarsely put together, — the want 
of a pall (that decent and well-imagined veil, 
which, hiding the coffin that hides the body, 
keeps that which would shock us at two 
removes from us), the coloured coats of the 
men that are hired, at cheap rates, to carry 
the body, — altogether, give the notion of the 
deceased having been some person of an ill 
life and conversation, some one who may not 
claim the entire rites of Christian burial, — 
one by whom some parts of the sacred cere- 



mony would be desecrated if they should be 
bestowed upon him. I meet these meagre 
processions sometimes in the street. They 
are sure to make me out of humour and melan- 
choly all the day after. They have a harsh 
and ominous aspect. 

If there is anything in the prospectus issued 
from Mr. Middleton's, Stonecutter's- street, 
which pleases me less than the rest, it is to 
find that the six pair of gloves are to be 
returned, that they are only lent, or, as the bill 
expresses it, for use, on the occasion. The 
hood, scarfs, and hat-bands, may properly 
enough be given up after the solemnity ; the 
cloaks no gentlemen would think of keeping ; 
but a pair of gloves, once fitted on, ought not 
in courtesy to be re-demanded. The wearer 
should certainly have the fee-simple of them.- 
The cost would be but trifling, and they would 
be a proper memorial of the day. This part of 
the Proposal wants reconsidering. It is not 
conceived in the same liberal way of thinking 
as the rest. I am also a little doubtful whether 
the limit, within which the burial-fee is made 
payable, should not be extended to thirty 
shillings. 

Some provision too ought undoubtedly to be 
made in favour of those well-intentioned per- 
sons and well-wishers to the fund, who, having 
all along paid their subscriptions regularly, 
are so unfortunate as to die before the six 
months, which would entitle them to their 
freedom, are quite completed. One can hardly 
imagine a more distressing case than that of a 
poor fellow lingering on in a consumption till 
the period of his freedom is almost in sight, and 
•then finding himself going with a velocity 
which makes it doubtful whether he shall be 
entitled to his funeral honours : his quota to 
which he nevertheless squeezes out, to the 
diminution of the comforts- which sickness 
demands. I think, in such cases, some of the 
contribution money ought to revert. With 
some such modifications, which might easily be 
introduced, I see nothing in these Proposals of 
Mr. Middleton which is not strictly fair and 
genteel ; and heartily recommend them to all 
persons of moderate incomes, in either sex, 
who are willing that this perishable part of 
them should quit the scene of its mortal acti- 
vities with as handsome circumstances as 
possible. 



ON BURIAL SOCIETIES, &c. 



63 



Before I quit the subject, I must guard my 
readers against a scandal, which they may be 
apt to take at the place whence these Proposals 
purport to be issued. From the sign of the 
First and the Last, they may conclude that Mr. 
Middleton is some publican, who, in assembling 
a club of this description at his house, may 
have a sinister end of his own, altogether 
foreign to the solemn purpose for which the 
club is pretended to be instituted. I must set 
them right by informing them that the issuer 
of these Proposals is no publiean, though he 
hangs out a sign, but an honest superintendant 
of funerals, who, by the device of a Cradle and 
a Coffin, connecting both ends of human ex- 
istence^ together, has most ingeniously contrived 
to insinuate, that the framers of these first 
and last receptacles of mankind divide this 
our life betwixt them, and that all that passes 
from the midwife to the undertaker may, in 
strict propriety, go for nothing : an awful and in- 
structive lesson to human vanity. 

Looking over some papers lately that fell 
into my hands by chance, and appear to have 
been written about the beginning of the last 
century, I stumbled, among the rest, upon the 
following short Essay, which the writer calls 
" The Character of an Undertaker." It is written 
with some stiffness and peculiarities of style, 
but some parts of it, I think, not unaptly charac- 
terise the profession to which Mr. Middleton 
has the honour to belong. The writer doubtless 
had in his mind the entertaining character 
of Sable, in Steele's excellent comedy of The 
Funeral. 

CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER. 
" He is master of the ceremonies at burials 
and mourning assemblies, grand marshal at 
funeral processions, the only true yeoman of 
the bedy, over which he exercises a dictatorial 
I authority from the moment that the breath 
I has taken leave to that of its final commitment 
to the earth. His ministry begins where the 
physician's, the lawyer's, and the divine's, end. 
Or if some part of the functions of the latter 
run parallel with his, it is only in ordine ad 
spiritualia. His temporalities remain unques- 
tioned. He is arbitrator of all questions of 
honour which may concern the defunct ; and 
upon slight inspection will pronounce how 
long he may remain in this upper world with 



credit to himself, and when it will be prudent 
for his reputation that he should retire. His 
determination in these points is peremptory 
and without appeal. Yet, with a modesty 
peculiar to his profession, he meddles not out 
of his own sphere. With the good or bad 
actions of the deceased in his life-time he has 
nothing to do. . He leaves the friends of the 
dead man to form their own conjectures as to 
the place to which the departed spirit is gone. 
His care is only about the exuviae. He con- 
cerns not himself even about the body as it 
is a structure of parts internal, and a wonderful 
microcosm. He leaves such curious specu- 
lations to the anatomy professor. Or, if any- 
thing, he is averse to such wanton inquiries, 
as delighting rather that the parts which he 
has care of should be returned to their kin- 
dred dust in as handsome and unmutilated 
condition as possible ; that the grave should 
have its full and unimpaired tribute, — a com- 
plete and just carcass. Nor is he only careful 
to provide for the body's entireness, but for 
its accommodation and ornament. He orders 
the fashion of its clothes, and designs the 
symmetry of its dwelling. Its vanity has an 
innocent survival in him. He is bed-maker 
to the dead. The pillows which he lays never 
rumple. The day of interment is the theatre 
in which he displays the mysteries of his art. 
It 'is hard to describe what he is, or rather to 
tell what he is not, on that day : for, being 
neither kinsman, servant, nor friend, he is all 
in turns ; a transcendant, running through all 
those relations. His office is to supply the 
place of self-agency in the family, who are 
presumed incapable of it through grief. He 
is eyes, and ears, and hands, to the whole 
household. A draught of wine cannot go 
round to the mourners, but he must minister 
it. A chair may hardly be restored to its 
place by a less solemn hand than his. He 
takes upon himself all functions, and is a sort 
of ephemeral major-domo ! He distributes 
his attentions among the company assembled 
according to the degree of affliction, which he 
calculates from the degree of kin to the de- 
ceased ; and marshals them accordingly in the 
procession. He himself is of a sad and tristful 
countenance ; yet such as (if well examined) 
is not without some show of patience and 
resignation at bottom : prefiguring, as it were, 



64 



LETTERS. 



to the friends of the deceased, what their 
grief shall be when the hand of Time shall 
have softened and taken down the bitterness 
of their first anguish ; so handsomely can he 
fore-shape and anticipate the work of Time. 
Lastly, with his wand, as with another divining- 
rod, he calculates the depth of earth at which 
the bones of the dead man may rest, which he 
ordinarily contrives may be at such a distance 
from the surface of this earth, as may frustrate 
the profane attempts of such as would violate 



his repose, yet sufficiently on this side the 
centre to give his friends hopes of an easy 
and practicable resurrection. And here we 
leave him, casting in dust to dust, which is 
the last friendly office that he undertakes to 
do." 

Begging your pardon for detaining you so 
long among " graves, and worms, and epitaphs," 
I am, Sir, 

Your humble servant, 

Moriturus. 



THE DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PERSONAL 

DEFORMITY ; 

WITH A HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING OF ADVERTISEMENTS 
FOR APPREHENDING OFFENDERS. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE REFLECTOR. 

Mr. Reflector, — There is no science in 
their pretensions to which mankind are more 
apt to commit grievous mistakes, than in the 
supposed very obvious one of physiognomy. 
I quarrel not with the principles of this 
science, as they are laid down by learned 
professors ; much less am I disposed, with 
some people, to deny its existence altogether 
as any inlet of knowledge that can be depended 
upon. I believe that there is, or may be, an 
art to " read the mind's construction in the 
face." But, then, in every species of reading, 
so much depends upon the eyes of the reader ; 
if they are blear, or apt to dazzle, or inat- 
tentive, or strained with too much attention, 
the optic power will infallibly bring home 
false reports of what it reads. How often do 
we say, upon a cursory glance at a stranger, 
" What a fine open countenance he has !" who, 
upon second inspection, proves to have the 
exact features of a knave? Nay, in much 
more intimate acquaintances, how a delusion 
of this kind shall continue for months, years, 
and then break up all at once ! 

Ask the married man, who has been so but i 
for a short space of time, if those blue eyes j 
where, during so many years of anxious court- | 
ship, truth, sweetness, serenity, seemed to be i 



written in characters which could not be mis- 
understood — ask him if the characters which 
they now convey be exactly the same ? — if for 
truth he does not read a dull virtue (the mimic 
of constancy) which changes not, only because 
it wants the judgment to make a preference ? 
— if for sweetness he does not read a stupid 
habit of looking pleased at everything ? — if for 
serenity he does not read animal tranquillity, 
the dead pool of the heart, which no breeze of 
passion can stir into health ? Alas ! what is 
this book of the countenance good for, which 
when we have read so long, and thought that 
we understood its contents, there comes a 
countless list of heart-breaking errata at the 
end ! 

But these are the pitiable mistakes to which 
love alone is subject. I have inadvertently 
wandered from my purpose, which was to 
expose quite an opposite blunder, into which 
we are no less apt to fall, through hate. How 
ugly a person looks upon whose reputation 
some awkward aspersion hangs, and how sud- 
denly his countenance clears up with his cha- 
racter ! I remember being persuaded of a 
man whom I had conceived an ill opinion of, 
that he had a very bad set of teeth ; which, 
since I have had better opportunities of being 
acquainted with his face and facts, I find to 



ON CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PERSONAL DEFORMITY. 



Go 



have been the very reverse of the truth. That 
crooked old woman, I once said, speaking of an 
ancient gentlewoman, whose actions did not 
square altogether with my notions of the rule 
of right. The unanimous surprise of the com- 
pany before whom I uttered these words soon 
convinced me that I had confounded mental 
with bodily obliquity, and that there was 
nothing tortuous about the old lady but her 
deeds. 

This humour of mankind to deny personal 
comeliness to those with whose moral attri- 
butes they are dissatisfied, is very strongly 
shown in those advertisements which stare 
us in the face from the walls of every street, 
and, with the tempting bait which they hang 
forth, stimulate at once cupidity and an abs- 
tract love of justice in the breast of every 
passing peruser : I mean, the advertisements 
offering rewards for the apprehension of abs- 
conded culprits, strayed apprentices, bank- 
rupts who have conveyed away their effects, 
debtors that have run away from their bail. 
I observe, that in exact proportion to the 
indignity with which the prosecutor, who is 
commonly the framer of the advertisement, 
conceives he has been treated, the personal 
pretensions of the fugitive are denied, and his 
defects exaggerated. 

A fellow whose misdeeds have been directed 
against the public in general, and in whose 
delinquency no individual shall feel himself 
particularly interested, generally meets with 
fair usage. A coiner or a smuggler shall get 
off tolerably well. His beauty, if he has any, 
is not much underrated, his deformities are 
not much magnified. A runaway apprentice, 
who excites perhaps the next least degree of 
spleen in his prosecutor, generally escapes 
with a pair of bandy legs ; if he has taken 
anything with him in his flight, a hitch in his 
gait is generally superadded. A bankrupt, 
who has been guilty of withdrawing his effects, 
if his case be not very atrocious, commonly 
meets with mild usage. But a debtor, who 
has left his bail in jeopardy, is sure to be de- 
scribed in characters of unmingled deformity. 
Here the personal feelings of the bail, which 
may be allowed to be somewhat poignant, 
are admitted to interfere ; and, as wrath and 
revenge commonly strike in the dark, the 
colours are laid on with a grossness which I 



am convinced must often defeat its own pur- 
pose. The fish that casts an inky cloud about 
him that his enemies may not find him, cannot 
more obscure himself by that device than the 
blackening representations of these angry 
advertisers must inevitably serve to cloak and 
screen the persons of those who have injured 
them from detection. I have before me at 
this moment one of these bills, which runs 
thus : — 

« FIFTY POUNDS REWARD. 

" Run away from his bail, John Tomkins, 
formerly resident in Princes-street, Soho, but 
lately of Clerkenwell. "Whoever shall appre- 
hend, or cause to be apprehended and lodged 
in one of his Majesty's jails, the said John 
Tomkins, shall receive the above reward. He 
is a thickset, sturdy man, about five foot six 
inches high, halts in his left leg, with a stoop 
in his gait, with coarse red hair, nose short 
and cocked up, with little grey eyes, (one of 
them bears the effect of a blow which he has 
lately received,) with a pot belly ; speaks with 
a thick and disagreeable voice ; goes shabbily 
drest ; had on when he went away a greasy 
shag great-coat with rusty yellow buttons." 

Now although it is not out of the compass of 
possibility that John Tomkins aforesaid may 
comprehend in his agreeable person all the 
above-mentioned aggregate of charms ; yet, 
from my observation of the manner in which 
these advertisements are usually drawn up, 
though I have not the pleasure of knowing the 
gentleman, yet would I lay a wager, that an 
advertisement to the following effect would 
have a much better chance of apprehending 
and laying by the heels this John Tomkins 
than the above description, although penned 
by one who, from the good services which he 
appears to have done for him, has not impro- 
bably been blessed with some years of previous 
intercourse with the said John. Taking, then, 
the above advertisement to be true, or nearly 
so, down to the words "left leg" inclusive, 
(though I have some doubt if the blemish there 
implied amount to a positive lameness, or be 
perceivable by any but the nearest friends of 
John,) I would proceed thus : — 

— " Leans a little forward in his walk ; his 
hair thick and inclining to auburn ; his nose of 
the middle size, a little turned up at the end ; 



66 



LETTERS. 



lively hazel eyes, (the contusion, as its effects 
are probably gone off by this time, I judge 
better omitted ;) inclines to be corpulent ; his 
voice thick but pleasing, especially when he 
sings ; had on a decent shag great-coat with 
yellow buttons." 

Now, I would stake a considerable wager 
(though by no means a positive man) that some 
such mitigated description would lead the 
beagles of the law into a much surer track for 
finding this ungracious varlet, than to set them 
upon a false scent after fictitious ugliness and 
fictitious shabbiness ; though, to do those gentle- 
men justice, I have no doubt their experience 
has taught them in all such cases to abate a 
great deal of the deformity which they are 
instructed to expect, and has discovered to 
them that the Devil's agents upon this earth, 
like their master, are far less ugly in reality than 
they are painted. 

I am afraid, Mr. Eeflector, that I shall be 
thought to have gone wide of my subject, which 
was to detect the practical errors of phy- 
siognomy, properly so called; whereas I have 
introduced physical defects, such as lameness, 
the effects of accidents upon a man's person, 
his wearing apparel, &c, as circumstances on 
which the eye of dislike, looking askance, may 
report erroneous conclusions to the under- 
standing. But if we are liable, through a kind 
or an unkind passion, to mistake so grossly 
concerning things so exterior and palpable, 
how much more are we likely to err respecting 
those nicer and less perceptible hints of cha- 
racter in a face whose detection constitutes the 
triumph of the physiognomist ! 

To revert to those bestowers of unmerited 
deformity, the framers of advertisements for 
the apprehension of delinquents, a sincere 
desire of promoting the end of public justice 
induces me to address a word to them on the 
best means of attaining those ends. I will 
endeavour to lay down a few practical, or 
rather negative, rules for their use, for my 
ambition extends no further than to arm them 
with cautions against the self-defeating of their 
own purposes : — 

1. Imprimis, then, Mr. Advertiser! If the 
culprit whom you are willing to recover be one 
to whom in times past you have shown kind- 
ness, and been disposed to think kindly of him 
yourself, but he has deceived your trust, and 



has run away, and left you with a load of debt 
to answer for him, — sit down calmly, and 
endeavour to behold him through the spec- 
tacles of memory rather than of present conceit. 
Image to yourself, before you pen a tittle of 
his description, the same plausible, good-looking 
man who took you in; and try to put away 
from your mind every intrusion of that deceit- 
ful spectre which perpetually obtrudes itself in 
the room of your former friend's known visage. 
It will do you more credit to have been de- 
ceived by such a one ; and depend upon it, the 
traitor will convey to the eyes of the world in 
general much more of that first idea which you 
formed (perhaps in part erroneous) of his phy- 
siognomy, than of that frightful substitute 
which you have suffered to creep in upon your 
mind and usurp upon it ; a creature which has 
no archetype except in your own brain. 

2. If you be a master that have to advertise 
a runaway apprentice, though the young dog's 
faults are known only to you, and no doubt his 
conduct has been aggravating enough, do not 
presently set him down as having crooked 
ancles. He may have a good pair of legs, and 
run away notwithstanding. Indeed, the latter 
does rather seem to imply the former. 

3. If the unhappy person against whom your 
laudable vengeance is directed be a thief, think 
that a thief may have a good nose, good eyes, 
good ears. It is indispensable to his profession 
that he be possessed of sagacity, foresight, vigi- 
lance ; it is more than probable, then, that he 
is endued with the bodily types or instruments 
of these qualities to some tolerable degree of 
perfectness. 

4. If petty larceny be his offence, I exhort 
you, do not confound meanness of crime with 
diminutiveness of stature. These things have 
no connexion. I have known a tall man stoop 
to the basest action, a short man aspire to the 
height of crime, a fair man be guilty of the 
foulest actions, &c. 

5. Perhaps the offender has been guilty of 
some atrocious and aggravated murder. Here 
is the most difficult case of all. It is above all 
requisite, that such a daring violator of the 
peace and safety of society should meet with 
his reward, a violent and ignominious death. 
But how shall we get at him? "Who is there 
among us, that has known him before he com- 
mitted the offence, that shall take upon him to 



ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING HANGED. 



(11 



say he can sit down coolly and pen a dispas- 
sionate description of a murderer? The tales 
of our nursery, — the reading of our youth, — 
the ill-looking man that was hired by the Uncle 
to despatch the Children in the Wood, — the 
grim ruffians who smothered the babes in the 
Tower, — the black and beetle-browed assassin 
of Mrs. Ratcliffe, — the shag-haired villain of 
Mr. Monk Lewis,— the Tarquin tread, and 
mill-stone dropping eyes, of Murder in Shaks- 
peare, — the exaggerations of picture and of 
poetry, — what we have read and what we have 
dreamed of, — rise up and crowd in upon us 
such eye-scaring portraits of the man of blood, 
that our pen is absolutely forestalled ; we com- 
mence poets when we should play the part of 
strictest historians, and the very blackness of 
horror which the deed calls up, serves as a 
cloud to screen the doer. The fiction is blame- 
less, it is accordant with those wise prejudices 
with which nature has guarded our innocence, 
as with impassable barriers, against the com- 
mission of such appalling crimes; but mean- 
time, the criminal escapes; or if, — owing to 
that wise abatement in their expectation of 
deformity, which, as I hinted at before, the 



officers of pursuit never fail to make, and no 
doubt in cases of this sort they make a more 
than ordinary allowance, — if, owing to this or 
any accident, the offender is caught and brought 
to his trial, who that has been led out of 
curiosity to witness such a scene, has not with 
astonishment reflected on the difference be- 
tween a real committer of a murder, and the 
idea of one which he has been collecting and 
heightening all his life out of books, dreams, 
&c. ? The fellow, perhaps, is a sleek, smug- 
looking man, with light hair and eyebrows, — 
the latter by no means jutting out or like a 
crag, — and with none of those marks which 
our fancy had pre-bestowed upon him. 

I find I am getting unawares too serious; 
the best way on such occasions is to leave off, 
which I shall do by generally recommending 
to all prosecuting advertisers not to confound 
crimes with ugliness ; or rather, to distinguish 
between that physiognomical deformity, which 
I am willing to grant always accompanies 
crime, and mere physical ugliness, — which sig- 
nifies nothing, is the opponent of nothing, and 
may exist in a good or bad person indifferently. 

Crito. 



ON THE 



INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING HANGED. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE REFLECTOR. 

Sir, — I am one of those unhappy persons 
whose misfortunes, it seems, do not entitle 
them to the benefit of pure pity. All that is 
bestowed upon me of that kindest alleviator of 
human miseries comes dashed with a double 
portion of contempt. My griefs have nothing 
in them that is felt as sacred by the bystanders. 
Yet is my affliction in truth of the deepest 
grain — the heaviest task that was ever given 
to mortal patience to sustain. Time, that 
wears out all other sorrows, can never modify 
or soften mine. Here they must continue to 
gnaw as long as that fatal mark 

Why was I ever born ? Why was innocence 
in my person suffered to be branded with a 
stain which was appointed only for the blackest 



guilt ? What had I done, or my parents, that a 
disgrace of mine should involve a whoteposterity 
in infamy ? I am almost tempted to believe, that, 
in some pre-existent state, crimes to which this 
sublunary life of mine hath been as much a 
stranger as the babe that is newly born into it, 
have drawn down upon me this vengeance, so 
disproportionate to my actions on this globe. 

My brain sickens, and my bosom labours to 
be delivered of the weight that presses upon it, 
yet my conscious pen shrinks from the avowal. 
But out it must 

0, Mr. Reflector! guess at the wretch's 
misery who now writes this to you, when, with 
tears and burning blushes, he is obliged to con- 
fess that he has been hanged 

Methinks I hear an involuntary exclamation 



88 



LETTERS. 



burst from you, as your imagination presents 
to you fearful images of your correspondent 
unknown — hanged ! 

Fear not, Mr. Editor. No disembodied spirit 
has the honour of addressing you. I am flesh 
and blood, an unfortunate system of bones, 
muscles, sinews, arteries, like yourself. 

Then, I presume, you mean to be pleasant. — That 
expression of yours, Mr. Correspondent, must be taken 
somehow in a metaphorical sense 

In the plainest sense, without trope or figure 
— Yes, Mr. Editor ! this neck of mine has felt 
the fatal noose,— these hands have tremblingly 
held up the corroborative prayer-book, — these 
lips have sucked the moisture of the last con- 
solatory orange, — this tongue has chanted the 
doleful cantata which no performer was ever 
called upon to repeat, — this face has had the 
veiling night-cap drawn over it 

But for no crime of mine. — Far be it from 
me to arraign the justice of my country, which, 
though tardy, did at length recognise my inno- 
cence. It is not for me to reflect upon judge 
or jury, now that eleven years have elapsed 
since the erroneous sentence was pronounced. 
Men will always be fallible, and perhaps cir- 
cumstances did appear at the time a little 
strong 

Suffice it to say, that after hanging four 
minutes, (as the spectators were pleased to 
compute it, — a man that is being strangled, I 
know from experience, has altogether a dif- 
ferent measure of time from his friends who 
are breathing leisurely about him, — I suppose 
the minutes lengthen as time approaches 
eternity, in the same manner as the miles get 
longer as you travel northward,) — after hang- 
ing four minutes, according to the best calcu- 
lation of the bystanders, a reprieve came, and 
I was cut down 

Really I am ashamed of deforming your 
pages with these technical phrases — if I knew 
how to express my meaning shorter — 

But to proceed. — My first care after I had 
been brought to myself by the usual methods, 
(those methods that are so interesting to the 
operator and his assistants, who are pretty 
numerous on such occasions, — but which no 
patient was ever desirous of undergoing a 
second time for the benefit of science,) my 
first care was to provide myself with an enor- 
mous stock or cravat to hide the place — you 



understand me ;— my next care was to procure 
a residence as distant as possible from thai 
part of the country where I had suffered. For 
that reason I chose the metropolis, as the place 
where wounded honour (I had been told) could 
lurk with the least danger of exciting inquiry, 
and stigmatised innocence had the best chance 
of hiding her disgrace in a crowd. I sought 
out a new circle of acquaintance, and my cir- 
cumstances happily enabling me to pursue my 
fancy in that respect, I endeavoured, by 
mingling in all the pleasures which the town 
affords, to efface the memory of what I had 
undergone. 

But, alas ! such is the portentous and all-per- 
vading chain of connexion which links toge- 
ther the head and members of this great com- 
munity, my scheme of lying perdu was defeated 
almost at the outset. A countryman of mine, 
whom a foolish law-suit had brought to town, 
by chance met me, and the secret was soon 
blazoned about. 

In a short time, I found myself deserted by 
most of those who had been my intimate 
friends. Not that any guilt was supposed to 
attach to my character. My officious country- 
man, to do him justice, had been candid enough 
to explain my perfect innocence. But, some- 
how or other, there is a want of strong virtue 
in mankind. We have plenty of the softer 
instincts, but the heroic character is gone. 
How else can I account for it, that of all my 
numerous acquaintance, among whom I had 
the honour of ranking sundry persons of edu- 
cation, talents, and worth, scarcely here and 
there one or two could be found who had the 
courage to associate with a man that had been 



Those few who did not desert me altogether 
were persons of strong but coarse minds ; and 
from the absence of all delicacy in them I 
suffered almost as much as from the super- 
abundance of a false species of it in the others. 
Those who stuck by me were the jokers, who 
thought themselves entitled by the fidelity 
which they had shown towards me to use me 
with what familiarity they pleased. Many and 
unfeeling are the jests that I have suffered 
from these rude (because faithful) Achateses. 
As they passed me in the streets, one would 
nod significantly to his companion and say, 
pointing to me, Smoke his cravat, and ask me 



ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING HANGED. 



69 



if I had got a wen, that I was so solicitous to 
cover my neck. Another would inquire, 
What news from * * * Assizes ? (which you 
may guess, Mr. Editor was the scene of my 
shame,) and whether the sessions was like to 
prove a maiden one ? A third would offer to 
ensure me from drowning. A fourth would 
teaze me with inquiries how I felt when I was 
swinging, whether I had not something like a 
blue flame dancing before my eyes ? A fifth 
took a fancy never to call me anything but 
Lazarus. And an eminent bookseller and pub- 
lisher, — who, in his zeal to present the public 
with new facts, had he lived in those days, I 
am confident, would not have scrupled waiting 
upon the person himself last mentioned, at the 
most critical period of his existence, to solicit 
a few facts relative to resuscitation, — had the 
modesty to offer me — guineas per sheet, if I 
would write, in his Magazine, a physiological 
account of my feelings upon coming to myself. 

But these were evils which a moderate for- 
titude might have enabled me to struggle with. 
Alas ! Mr. Editor, the women, — whose good 
graces I had always most assiduously cultivated, 
from whose softer minds I had hoped a more 
delicate and generous sympathy than I found 
in the men, — the women began to shun me — 
this was the unkindest blow of all. 

But is it to be wondered at ? How couldst 
thou imagine, wretchedest of beings, that that 
tender creature Seraphina would fling her 
pretty arms about that neck which previous 
circumstances had rendered infamous ? That 
she would put up with the refuse of the rope, 
the leavings of the cord ? Or that any analogy 
could subsist between the knot which binds 
true lovers, and the knot which ties male- 
factors % 

I can forgive that pert baggage Flirtilla, who, 
when I complimented her one day on the exe- 
cution which her eyes had done, replied, that, 
to be sure, Mr. * * was a judge of those things. 
But from thy more exalted mind, Celestina, I 
expected a more unprejudiced decision. 

The person whose true name I conceal under 
this appellation, of all the women that I was 
ever acquainted with had the most manly turn 
of mind, which she had improved by reading 
and the best conversation. Her understand- 
ing was not more masculine than her manners 
and whole disposition were delicately and truly 



feminine. She was the daughter of an officer 
who had fallen in the service of his country, 
leaving his widow, and Celestina, an only child, 
with a fortune sufficient to set them above 
want, but not to enable them to live in splen- 
dour. I had the mother's permission to pay 
my addresses to the young lady, and Celestina 
seemed to approve of my suit. 

Often and often have I poured out my over- 
charged soul in the presence of Celestina, com- 
plaining of the hard and unfeelingprejudices of 
the world ; and the sweet maid has again and 
again declared, that no irrational prejudice 
should hinder her from esteeming every man 
according to his intrinsic worth. Often has 
she repeated the consolatory assurance, that 
she could never consider as essentially igno- 
minious an accident, which was indeed to be de- 
precated, but which might have happened to 
the most innocent of mankind. Then would she 
set forth some illustrious example, which her 
reading easily furnished, of a Phocion or a 
Socrates unjustly condemned ; of a Raleigh or 
a Sir Thomas More, to whom late posterity had 
done justice ; and by soothing my fancy witli 
some such agreeable parallel, she would make 
me almost to triumph in my disgrace, and 
convert my shame into glory. 

In such entertaining and instructive con- 
versations the time passed on, till I impor- 
tunately urged the mistress of my affections 
to name a day for our union. To this she 
obligingly consented, and I thought myself 
the happiest of mankind. But how was I 
surprised one morning on the receipt of the 
following billet from my charmer : — 

Sir, 
You must not impute it to levity, or to a 
worse failing, ingratitude, if, with anguish of 
heart, I feel myself compelled by irresistible 
arguments to recall a vow which I fear I 
made with too little consideration. I never 
can be yours. The reasons of my decision, 
which is final, are in my own breast, and you 
must everlastingly remain a stranger to them. 
Assure yourself that I can never cease to 
esteem you as I ought. 

CE LEST IK A. 

At the sight of this paper, I ran in frantic 
haste to Celestina's lodgings, where I learned, 



70 



LETTERS. 



to my infinite mortification, that the mother 
and daughter were set off on a journey to a 
distant part of the country, to visit a relation, 
and were not expected to return in less than 
four months. 

Stunned by this blow, which left me without 
the courage to solicit an explanation by letter, 
even if I had known where they were, (for 
the particular address was industriously con- 
cealed from me,) I waited with impatience 
the termination of the period, in the vain 
hope that I might be permitted to have a 
chance of softening the harsh decision by a 
personal interview with Celestina after her 
return. But before three months were at an 
end, I learned from the newspapers that my 
beloved had — given her hand to another ! 

Heart-broken as I was, I was totally at a 
loss to account for the strange step which she 
had taken ; and it was not till some years 
after that I learned the true reason from a 
female relation of hers, to whom it seems 
Celestina had confessed in confidence, that it 
was no demerit of mine that had caused her 
to break off the match so abruptly, nor any 
preference which she might feel for any other 
person, for she preferred me (she was pleased 
to say) to all mankind ; but when she came to 
lay the matter closer to her heart, she found 
that she never should be able to bear the 
sight — (I give you her very words as they were 
detailed to me by her relation) — the sight of a 
man in a nightcap, who had appeared on a 
public platform — it would lead to such a dis- 
agreeable association of ideas ! And to this 
punctilio I was sacrificed. 

To pass over an infinite series of minor 
mortifications, to which this last and heaviest 
might well render me callous, behold me here, 
Mr. Editor ! in the thirty- seventh year of my 
existence, (the twelfth, reckoning from my 
reanimation,) cut off from all respectable 
connexions ; rejected by the fairer half of the 
community, — who in my case alone seem to 
have laid aside the characteristic pity of their 
sex ; punished because I was once punished 
unjustly ; suffering for no other reason than 
because I once had the misfortune to suffer 
without any cause at all. In no other country, 
I think, but this, could a man have been sub- 
ject to such a life-long persecution, when once 
his innocence had been clearly established. 



Had T crawled forth a rescued victim from 
the rack in the horrible dungeons of the In- 
quisition, — had I heaved myself up from a 
half bastinado in China, or been torn from 
the just-entering, ghastly impaling stake in 
Barbary, — had I dropt alive from the knout 
in Russia, or come off with a gashed neck 
from the half-mortal, scarce-in-time-retracted 
cimeter of an executioneering slave in Turkey, 
— I might have borne about the remnant of 
this frame (the mangled trophy of reprieved 
innocence) with credit to myself, in any of 
those barbarous countries. No scorn, at least, 
would have mingled with the pity (small as it 
might be) with which what was left of me 
would have been surveyed. 

The singularity of my case has often led me 
to inquire into the reasons of the general levity 
with which the subject of hanging is treated 
as a topic in this country. I say, as a topic : 
for let the very persons who speak so lightly 
of the thing at a distance be brought to view 
the real scene, — let the platform be bona fide 
exhibited, and the trembling culprit brought 
forth, — the case is changed ; but as a topic of 
conversation, I appeal to the vulgar jokes 
which pass current in every street. But why 
mention them, when the politest authors have 
agreed in making use of this subject as a source 
of the ridiculous ? Swift, and Pope, and Prior, 
are fond of recurring to it. Gay has built an 
entire drama upon this single foundation. The 
whole interest of the Beggars' Opera may be 
said to hang upon it. To such writers as 
Fielding and Smollett it is a perfect bonne- 
bonche. — Hear the facetious Tom Brown, in his 
Comical View of London and Westminster, describe 
the Order of the Show at one of the Tyburn Execu- 
tions in his time : — " Mr. Ordinary visits his 
melancholy flock in Newgate by eight. Dole- 
ful procession up Holborn-hill about eleven. 
Men handsome and proper that were never 
thought so before, which is some comfort how- 
ever. Arrive at the fatal place by twelve. 
Burnt brandy, women, and sabbath-breaking, 
repented of. Some few penitential drops fall 
under the gallows. Sheriffs' men, parson, 
pickpockets, criminals, all very busy. The 
last concluding peremptory psalm struck up. 
Show over by one." — In this sportive strain 
does this misguided wit think proper to play 
with a subject so serious, which yet he would 



ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING HANGED. 



71 



hardly have done if he had not known that 
there existed a predisposition in the habits of 
his unaccountable countrymen to consider the 
subject as a jest. But what shall we say to 
Shakspeare, who, (not to mention the solution 
which the Gravedigger in Hamlet gives of his 
fellow-workman's problem,) in that scene in 
Measure for Measure, where the Clown calls upon 
Master Barnardlne to get up and be hanged, 
which he declines on the score of being sleepy, 
has actually gone out of his way to gratify this 
amiable propensity in his countrymen ; for it 
is plain, from the use that was to be made of 
his head, and from Abhorson's asking, " Is the 
axe upon the block, sirrah?" that beheading, 
and not hanging, was the punishment to which 
Barnardlne was destined. But Shakspeare 
knew that the axe and block were pregnant 
with no ludicrous images, and therefore falsi- 
fied the historic truth of his own drama (if I 
may so speak), rather than he would leave out 
such excellent matter for a jest as the suspend- 
ing of a fellow-creature in mid-air has been 
ever esteemed to be by Englishmen. 

One reason why the ludicrous never fails to 
intrude itself into our contemplations upon 
this mode of death, I suppose to be, the absurd 
posture into which a man is thrown who is 
condemned to dance, as the vulgar delight to 
express it, upon nothing. To see him whisking 
and wavering in the air, 

As the wind you know will wave a man * ; 

to behold the vacant carcase, from which the 
life is newly dislodged, shifting between earth 
and heaven, the sport of every gust ; like a 
weathercock, serving to show from which point 
the wind blows ; like a maukin, fit only to 
scare away birds ; like a nest left to swing 
upon a bough when the bird is flown : these 
are uses to which we cannot without a mixture 
of spleen and contempt behold the human 
carcase reduced. We string up dogs, foxes, 
bats, moles, weasels. Man surely deserves a 
steadier death. 

Another reason why the ludicrous associates 
more forcibly with this than with any other 
mode of punishment, I cannot help thinking 
to be, the senseless costume with which old 
prescription has thought fit to clothe the exit 
of malefactors in this country. Let a man do 

* Hieronimo, in the Spanish Tragedy. 



what he will to abstract from his imagination 
all idea of the whimsical, something of it will 
come across him when he contemplates the 
figure of a fellow-creature in the day-time (in 
however distressing a situation) in a night- 
cap. Whether it be that this nocturnal addi- 
tion has something discordant with daylight, 
or that it is the dress which we are seen in at 
those times when we are " seen," as the Angel 
in Milton expresses it, " least wise," — this, I am 
afraid, will always be the case ; unless, indeed, 
as in my instance, some strong personal feel- 
ing overpower the ludicrous altogether. To 
me, when I reflect upon the train of misfor- 
tunes which have pursued men through life, 
owing to that accursed drapery, the cap pre- 
sents as purely frightful an object as the 
sleeveless yellow coat and devil-painted mitre 
of the San Benitos. — An ancestor of mine, who 
suffered for his loyalty in the time of the civil 
wars, was so sensible of the truth of what I am 
here advancing, that on the morning of execu- 
tion, no entreaties could prevail upon him to sub- 
mit to the odious dishabille, as he called it, but 
he insisted upon wearing, and actually suffered 
in, the identical flowing periwig which he is 
painted in, in the gallery belonging to my 
uncle's seat in shire. 

Suffer me, Mr. Editor, before I quit the 
subject, to say a word or two respecting the 
minister of justice in this country ; in plain 
words, I mean the hangman. It has always 
appeared to me that, in the mode or inflicting 
capital punishments with us, there is too much 
of the ministry of the human hand. The guil- 
lotine, as performing its functions more of itself 
and sparing human agency, though a cruel and 
disgusting exhibition, in my mind has many 
ways the advantage over our way. In behead- 
ing, indeed, as it was formerly practised in 
England, and in whipping to death, as is 
sometimes practised now, the hand of man is 
no doubt sufficiently busy ; but there is some- 
thing less repugnant in these downright blows 
than in the officious barber-like ministerings 
of the other. To have a fellow with his hang- 
man's hands fumbling about your collar, 
adjusting the thing as your valet would regu- 
late your cravat, valuing himself on his menial 
dexterity 

I never shall forget meeting my rascal, — I 
mean the fellow who officiated for me, — in 



72 



LETTERS. 



London last winter. I think I see him now, — 
in a waistcoat that had been mine, — smirking 

along as if he knew me 

In some parts of Germany, that fellow's 
office is by law declared infamous, and his 
posterity incapable of being ennobled. They 
have hereditary hangmen, or had at least, in 
the same manner as they had hereditary other 
great officers of state ; and the hangmen's 



families of two adjoining parishes intermarried 
with each other, to keep the breed entire. I 
wish something of the same kind were esta- 
blished in England. 

But it is time to quit a subject which teems 

with disagreeable images 

Permit me to subscribe myself, Mr. Editor, 
Your unfortunate friend, 

Pensilis. 



ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILORS. 



Sedet, aeternutnque sedebit, 
Infelix Theseus. Virgil. 



That there is a professional melancholy, if 
I may so express myself, incident to the occu- 
pation of a tailor, is a fact which I think very 
few will venture to dispute. I may safely 
appeal to my readers, whether they ever knew 
one of that faculty that was not of a tempera- 
ment, to say the least, far removed from mer- 
curial or jovial. 

Observe the suspicious gravity of their gait. 
The peacock is not more tender, from a con- 
sciousness of his peculiar infirmity, than a 
gentleman of this profession is of being known 
by the same infallible testimonies of his occu- 
pation. "Walk, that I may know thee." 

Do you ever see him go whistling along the 
foot-path like a carman, or brush through a 
crowd like a baker, or go smiling to himself 
like a lover? Is he forward to thrust into 
mobs, or to make one at the ballad-singer's 
audiences ? Does he not rather slink by assem- 
blies and meetings of the people, as one that 
wisely declines popular observation ? 

How extremely rare is a noisy tailor! a 
mirthful and obstreperous tailor ! 

"At my nativity," says Sir Thomas Browne, 
" my ascendant was the earthly sign of Scor- 
pius ; I was born in the planetary hour of 
Saturn, and I think I have a piece of that 
leaden planet in me." One would think that 
he were anatomising a tailor ! save that to the 
latter's occupation, methinks, a woollen planet 
would seem more consonant, and that he should 



be born when the sun was in Aries. — He goes 
on : "I am no way facetious, nor disposed for 
the mirth and galliardise of company." How 
true a type of the whole trade! Eminently 
economical of his words, you shall seldom hear 
a jest come from one of them. He sometimes 
furnishes subject for a repartee, but rarely (I 
think) contributes one ore proprio. 

Drink itself does not seem to elevate him, or 
at least to call out of him any of the external 
indications of vanity. I cannot say. that it 
never causes his pride to swell, but it never 
breaks out. I am even fearful that it may 
swell and rankle to an alarming degree in- 
wardly. For pride is near of kin to melan- 
choly! — a hurtful obstruction from the ordi- 
nary outlets of vanity being shut. It is this 
stoppage which engenders proud humours. 
Therefore a tailor may be proud. I think he 
is never vain. The display of his gaudy pat- 
terns, in that book' of his which emulates the 
rainbow, never raises any inflations of that 
emotion in him, corresponding to what the 
wig-maker (for instance) evinces, when he 
expatiates on a curl or a bit of hair. He 
spreads them forth with a sullen incapacity for 
pleasure, a real or affected indifference to 
grandeur. Cloth of gold neither seems to elate, 
nor cloth of frize to depress him — according to 
the beautiful motto which formed the modest 
imprese of the shield worn by Charles Brandon 
at his marriage with the king's sister. Nay, I 



ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILORS. 



73 



doubt whether he would discover any vain- 
glorious complacence in his colours, though 
« Iris" herself "dipt the woof." 

In further corroboration of this argument — 
who ever saw the wedding of a tailor announced 
in the newspapers, or the birth of his eldest 
son? 

When was a tailor known to give a dance, or 
to be himself a good dancer, or to perform 
exquisitely on the tight-rope, or to shine in any 
such light and airy pastimes? to sing, or play 
on the violin ? 

Do they much care for public rejoicings, 
lightings up, ringing of bells, firing of cannons, 
&c? 

Valiant I know they can be ; but I appeal to 
those who were witnesses to the exploits of 
Eliot's famous troop, whether in their fiercest 
charges they betrayed anything of that 
thoughtless oblivion of death with which a 
Frenchman jigs into battle, or whether they 
did not show more of the melancholy valour of 
the Spaniard, upon whom they charged ; that 
deliberate courage which contemplation and 
sedentary habits breathe ? 

Are they often great ne wsmongers ?— I have 
known some few among them arrive at the 
dignity of speculative politicians; but that 
light and cheerful every-day interest in the 
affairs and goings-on of the world, which makes 
| the barber* such delightful company, I think 
is rarely observable in them. 

This characteristic pensiveness in them being 
so notorious, I wonder none of those writers, 
who have expressly treated of melancholy, 
should have mentioned it. Burton, whose 



* Having incidentally mentioned the barber in a com- 
parison of professional temperaments, I hope no other 
trade will take offence, or look upon it as an incivility 
done to them, if I say, that in courtesy, humanity, and 
all the conversational and social graces which "gladden 
life," I esteem no profession comparable to his. Indeed, 
so great is the good-will which I bear to this useful and 
agreeable body of men, that, residing in one of the Inns of 
| Court (where the best specimens of them are to be found, 
except perhaps at the universities), there are seven of them 
to whom I am personally known, and who never pass me 
without the compliment of the hat on either side. My 
truly polite and urbane friend, Mr. A m, of Flower- 
de-luce-court, in Fleet-street, will forgive my mention of 
aim in particular. I can truly say, that I never spent a 
quarter of an hour under his hands without deriving some 
profit from the agreeable discussions which are always 
j?oing on there. 



book is an excellent abstract of all the authors 
in that kind who preceded him, and who treats 
of every species of this malady, from the hypo- 
chondriacal or windy to the heroical or love melan- 
choly, has strangely omitted it. Shakspeare 
himself has overlooked it. "I have neither 
the scholar's melancholy (saith Jaques), which 
is emulation; nor the courtier's, which is 
proud ; nor the soldier's, which is politic ; nor 
the lover's, which is all these:" — and then, 
when you might expect him to have brought 
in, "nor the tailor's, which is" — so and so, he 
comes to an end of his enumeration, and falls 
to a defining of his own melancholy. 

Milton likewise has omitted it, where he had 
so fair an opportunity of bringing it in, in his 



But the partial omissions of historians 
proving nothing against the existence of any 
well-attested fact, I shall proceed and en- 
deavour to ascertain the causes why this 
pensive turn should be so predominant in 
people of this profession above all others. 

And first, may it not be, that the custom of 
wearing apparel being derived to us from the 
fall, and one of the most mortifying products 
of that unhappy event, a certain seriousness 
(to say no more of it) may in the order of 
things have been intended to be impressed 
upon the minds of that race of men to whom 
in all ages the care of contriving the human 
apparel has been entrusted, to keep up the 
memory of the first institution of clothes, and 
serve as a standing remonstrance against those 
vanities which the absurd conversion of a 
memorial of our shame into an ornament of 
our persons was destined to produce ? Corre- 
spondent in some sort to this, it may be 
remarked, that the tailor sitting over a cave or 
hollow place, in the caballistick language of his 
order is said to have certain melancholy regions 
always open under his feet. — But waiving 
further inquiry into final causes, where the best 
of us can only wander in the dark, let us try 
to discover the efficient causes of this melan- 
choly. 

I think, then, that they may be reduced to 
two, omitting some subordinate ones, viz. 
The sedentary habits of the tailor.— 
Something peculiar in his diet. — 

First, his sedentary habits. — In Doctor Norris's 
famous narrative of the frenzy of Mr. John 



74 



LETTERS. 



Dennis, the patient, being questioned as to the 
occasion of the swelling in his legs, replies that 
it came "by criticism ;" to which the learned 
doctor seeming to demur, as to a distemper 
which he had never read of, Dennis (who ap- 
pears not to have been mad upon all subjects) 
rejoins, with some warmth, that it was no dis- 
temper, but a noble art ; that he had sat four- 
teen hours a day at it ; and that the other was 
a pretty doctor not to know that there was 
a communication between the brain and the 
legs ! 

When we consider that this sitting for 
fourteen hours continuously, which the critic 
probably practised only while he was writing 
his "remarks," is no more than what the 
tailor, in the ordinary pursuance of his art, 
submits to daily (Sundays excepted) throughout 
the year, shall we wonder to find the brain 
affected, and in a manner overclouded, from 
that indissoluble sympathy between the noble 
and less noble parts of the body which Dennis 
hints at ? The unnatural and painful maimer 
of his sitting must also greatly aggravate the 
evil, insomuch that I have sometimes ventured 
to liken tailors at their boards to so many 



envious Junos, sitting cross-legged to Kinder the 
birth of their own felicity. The legs transversed 
thus ^ cross-wise, or decussated, was among 
the ancients the posture of malediction. The 
Turks, who practise it at this day, are noted 
to be a melancholy people. 

Secondly, his diet. — To which purpose I find 
a most remarkable passage in Burton, in his 
chapter entitled " Bad diet a cause of melan- 
choly." " Amongst herbs to be eaten (he 
says) I find gourds, cucumbers, melons, dis- 
allowed ; but especially cabbage. It causeth 
troublesome dreams, and sends up black va- 
pours to the brain. Galen, Loc. Affect, lib. iii, 
cap. 6, of all herbs condemns cabbage. And 
Isaack, lib. ii. cap. 1. animce gravitatem facit, it 
brings heaviness to the soul." I could not 
omit so flattering a testimony from an author 
who, having no theory of his own to serve, 
has so unconsciously contributed to the con- 
firmation of mine. It is well known that this 
last-named vegetable has, from the earliest 
periods wHch we can discover, constituted 
almost the sole food of this extraordinary 
race of people. 

Burton, Junior. 



HOSPITA 



THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE PLEASURES 
OF THE PALATE. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE REFLECTOR. 
Mr. Reflector, — My husband and I are 
fond of company, and being in easy circum- 
stances, we are seldom without a party to 
dinner two or three days in a week. The 
utmost cordiality has hitherto prevailed at 
our meetings ; but there is a young gentleman, 
a near relation of my husband's, that has lately 
come among us, whose preposterous behaviour 
bids fair, if not timely checked, to disturb 
our tranquillity. He is too great a favourite 
with my husband in other respects, for me to 
remonstrate with him in any other than this 
distant way. A letter printed in your pub- 
lication may catch his eye ; for he is a great j 



reader, and makes a point of seeing all the 
new things that come out. Indeed, he is by 
no means deficient in understanding. My 
husband says that he has a good deal of wit ; 
but for my part I cannot say I am any judge 
of that, having seldom observed him open his 
mouth except for purposes very foreign to 
conversation. In short, Sir, this young gen- 
tleman's failing is, an immoderate indulgence 
of his palate. The first time he dined with 
us, he thought it necessary to extenuate the 
length of time he kept the dinner on the 
table, by declaring that he had taken a very j 
long walk in the morning, and came in fasting; 
but as that excuse could not serve above once 



I 



ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE PALATE. 



75 



or twice at most, he has latterly dropped the 
mask altogether, and chosen to appear in his 
own proper colours without reserve or apology. 

You cannot imagine how unpleasant his 
conduct has become. His way of staring at 
the dishes as they are brought in, has abso- 
lutely something immodest in it : it is like the 
stare of an impudent man of fashion at a fine 
woman, when she first comes into a room. I 
am positively in pain for the dishes, and cannot 
help thinking they have consciousness, and 
will be put out of countenance, he treats them 
so like what they are not. 

Then again he makes no scruple of keeping 
a joint of meat on the table, after the cheese 
and fruit are brought in, till he has what he 
calls done with it. Now how awkward this 
looks, where there are ladies, you may judge, 
Mr. Reflector, — how it disturbs the order and 
comfort of a meal. And yet I always make a 
point of helping him first, contrary to all good 
manners,: — before any of my female friends 
are helped, — that he may avoid this very 
error. I wish he would eat before he comes 
out. 

What makes his proceedings more parti- 
cularly offensive at our house is, that my 
husband, though out of common politeness he 
is obliged to set dishes of animal food before 
his visiters, yet himself and his whole family 
(myself included) feed entirely on vegetables. 
We have a theory, that animal food is neither 
wholesome nor natural to man ; and even 
vegetables we refuse to eat until they have un- 
dergone the operation of fire, in consideration 
of those numberless little living creatures 
which the glass helps us to detect in every 
fibre of the plant or root before it be dressed. 
On the same theory we boil our water, which 
is our only drink, before we suffer it to come 
to table. Our children are perfect little Py- 
thagoreans : it would do you good to see them 
in their nursery, stuffing their dried fruits, 
figs, raisins, and milk, which is the only ap- 
proach to animal food which is allowed. They 
have no notion how the substance of a creature 
that ever had life can become food for another 
creature. A beef-steak is an absurdity to 
them ; a mutton chop, a solecism in terms ; a 
cutlet, a word absolutely without any meaning; 
a butcher is nonsense, except so far as it is 
taken for a man who delights in blood, or a 



hero. In this happy state of innocence we 
have kept their minds, not allowing them to 
go into the kitchen, or to hear of any prepa- 
rations for the dressing of animal food, or 
even to know that such things are practised. 
But as a state of ignorance is incompatible 
with a certain age, and as my eldest girl, who 
is ten years old next Midsummer, must shortly 
be introduced into the world and sit at table 
with us, where she will see some things which 
will shock all her received notions, I have 
been endeavouring by little and little to break 
her mind, and prepare it for the disagreeable 
impressions which must be forced upon it. 
The first hint I gave her upon the subject, I 
could see her recoil from it with the same 
horror with which we listen to a tale of An- 
thropophagism ; but she has gradually grown 
more reconciled to it, in some measure, from 
my telling her that it was the custom of the 
world, — to which, however senseless, we must 
submit, so far as we could do it with innocence, 
not to give offence ; and she has shown so 
much strength of mind on other occasions, 
which I have no doubt is owing to the calm- 
ness and serenity superinduced by her diet, 
that I am in good hopes when the proper 
season for her debut arrives, she may be brought 
to endure the sight of a roasted chicken or a 
dish of sweet-breads for the first time without 
fainting. Such being the nature of our little 
household, you may guess what inroads into 
the economy of it, — what revolutions and 
turnings of things upside down, the example 

of such a feeder as Mr. is calculated to 

produce. 

I wonder, at a time like the present, when 
the scarcity of every kind of food is so pain- 
fully acknowledged, that shame has no effect 
upon him. Can he have read Mr. Malthus's 
Thoughts on the Ratio of Food to Popula- 
tion? Can he think it reasonable that one 
man should consume the sustenance of 
many? 

The young gentleman has an agreeable air 
and person, such as are not unlikely to recom- 
mend him on the score of matrimony. But 
his fortune is not over large ; and what pru- 
dent young woman would think of embarking 
hers with a man who would bring three or 
four mouths (or what is equivalent to them) 
into a family ? She might as reasonably choose 



76 



LETTERS. 



a widower in the same circumstances with 
three or four children. 

I cannot think who he takes after. His 
father and mother, by all accounts, were very- 
moderate eaters ; only I have heard that the 
latter swallowed her victuals very fast, and 
the former had a tedious custom of sitting 



long at his meals. Perhaps he takes after 
both. 

I wish you would turn this in your thoughts, 
Mr. Reflector, and give us your ideas on the 
subject of excessive eating, and, particularly, 
of animal food. 

Hospita. 



EDAX ON APPETITE. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE REFLECTOR. 

Mr. Reflector, — I am going to lay before 
you a case of the most iniquitous persecution 
that ever poor devil suffered. 

You must know, then, that I have been 
visited with a calamity ever since my birth. 
How shall I mention it without offending 
delicacy? Yet out it must. My sufferings, 
then, have all arisen from a most inordinate 
appetite 

Not for wealth, not for vast possessions, — 
then might I have hoped to find a cure in 
some of those precepts of philosophers or 
poets, — those verba et voces which Horace 
speaks of : 

" quibus bunc lenire dolorem 
Possis, et magnam morbi deponere partem ;" 

not for glory, not for fame, not for applause, 
— for against this disease, too, he tells us there 
are certain piacula, or, as Pope has chosen to 
render it, 

" rbymes, which fresh and fresh applied, 
Will cure the arrant'st puppy of his pride ;" 

nor yet for pleasure, properly so called : the 
strict and virtuous lessons which I received 
in early life from the best of parents, — a pious 
clergyman of the Church of England, now no 
more, — I trust have rendered me sufficiently 
secure on that side : 

No, Sir, for none of these things ; but an 
appetite, in its coarsest and least metaphorical 
sense, — an appetite for food. 

The exorbitances of my arrow-root and 
pappish days I cannot go back far enough to 
remember ; only I have been told, that my 
mother's constitution not admitting of my 
being nursed at home, the woman who had 



the care of me for that purpose used to make 
most extravagant demands for my pretended 
excesses in that kind ; which my parents, 
rather than believe anything unpleasant of 
me, chose to impute to the known covetousness 
and mercenary disposition of that sort of people. 
This blindness continued on their part after I 
was sent for home, up to the period when it 
was thought proper, on account of my advanced 
age, that I should mix with other boys more 
unreservedly than I had hitherto done. I was 
accordingly sent to boarding-school. 

Here the melancholy truth became too ap- 
parent to be disguised. The prying republic 
of which a great school consists soon found 
me out : there was no shifting the blame any 
longer upon other people's shoulders, — no 
good-natured maid to take upon herself the 
enormities of which I stood accused in the 
article of bread and butter, besides the crying 
sin of stolen ends of puddings, and cold pies 
strangely missing. The truth was but too 
manifest in my looks, — in the evident signs 
of inanition which I exhibited after the fullest 
meals, in spite of the double allowance which 
my master was privately instructed by my 
kind parents to give me. The sense of the 
ridiculous, which is but too much alive in 
grown persons, is tenfold more active and 
alert in boys. Once detected, I was the con- 
stant butt of their arrows, — the mark against 
which every puny leveller directed his little 
shaft of scorn. The very Graduses and The- 
sauruses were raked for phrases to pelt me 
with, by the tiny pedants. Ventri natus — 
Ventri deditus, — Vesana gula, — Escarum 
gurges, — Dapibus indulgens, — Non dans fraena 
guise, — Sectanslautee fercula mens89,resounded 



EDAX ON APPETITE. 



77 



wheresoever I passed. I led a weary life, suf- 
fering the penalties of guilt for that which 
was no crime, but only following the blameless 
dictates of nature. The remembrance of those 
childish reproaches haunts me yet oftentimes 
in my dreams. My school days come again, 
and the horror I used to feel, when, in some 
silent corner retired from the notice of my 
unfeeling playfellows, I have sat to mumble 
the solitary slice of gingerbread allotted me 
by the bounty of considerate friends, and 
have ached at heart because I could not spare 
a portion of it, as I saw other boys do, to some 
favourite boy ; for if I know my own heart, I 
was never selfish, — never possessed a luxury 
which I did not hasten to communicate to 
others ; but my food, alas ! was none ; it was 
an indispensable necessary ; I could as soon 
have spared the blood in my veins, as have 
parted that with my companions. 

Well, no one stage of suffering lasts for 
ever : we should grow reconciled to it at length, 
I suppose, if it did. The miseries of my 
school-days had their end ; I was once more 
restored to the paternal dwelling. The affec- 
tionate solicitude of my parents was directed 
to the good-natured purpose of concealing 
even from myself the infirmity which haunted 
me. I was continually told that I was growing, 
and the appetite I displayed was humanely 
represented as being nothing more than a 
symptom and an effect of that. I used even 
to be complimented upon it. But this tem- 
porary fiction could not endure above a year 
or two. I ceased, to grow, but, alas ! I did not 
cease my demands for alimentary sustenance. 

Those times are long since past, and with 
them have ceased to exist the fond concealment, 
— the indulgent blindness, — the delicate over- 
looking, — the compassionate fiction. I and 
my infirmity are left exposed and bare to the 
broad, unwinking eye of the world, which 
nothing can elude. My meals are scanned, 
my mouthfuls weighed in a balance : that 
which appetite demands is set down to the 
account of gluttony, — a sin which my whole 
soul abhors — nay, which Nature herself has 
put it out of my power to commit. I am con- 
stitutionally disenabled from that vice ; for 
how can he be guilty of excess who never 
can get enough ? Let them cease, then, to 
watch my plate ; and leave off their ungracious 



comparisons of it to the seven baskets of 
fragments, and the supernaturally-replenished 
cup of old Baucis ; and be thankful that their 
more phlegmatic stomachs, not their virtue, 
have saved them from the like reproaches. I 
do not see that any of them desist from eating 
till the holy rage of hunger, as some one calls 
it, is supplied. Alas ! I am doomed to stop 
short of that continence. 

What am I to do ? I am by disposition in- 
clined to conviviality and the social meal. I 
am no gourmand : I require no dainties : I 
should despise the board of Heliogabalus, 
except for its long sitting. Those vivacious, 
long-continued meals of the latter Romans, 
indeed, I justly envy ; but the kind of fare 
which the Curii and Dentati put up with, I 
could be content with. Dentatus I have been 
called, among other unsavoury jests. Double- 
meal is another name which my acquaintance 
have palmed upon me, for an innocent piece 
of policy which I put in practice for some 
time without being found out ; which was — 
going the round of my friends, beginning with 
the most primitive feeders among them, who 
take their dinner about one o'clock, and so suc- 
cessively dropping in upon the next and the 
next, till by the time I got among my more 
fashionable intimates, whose hour was six or 
seven, I have nearly made up the body of a just 
and complete meal (as I reckon it), without 
taking more than one dinner (as they account 
of dinners) at one person's house. Since I have 
been found out, I endeavour to make up by a 
damper, as I call it, at home, before I go out. But 
alas ! with me, increase of appetite truly grows 
by what it feeds on. What is peculiarly offen- 
sive to me at those dinner-parties is, the senseless 
custom of cheese, and the dessert afterwards. 
I have a rational antipathy to the former ; and 
for fruit, and those other vain vegetable substi- 
tutes for meat (meat, the only legitimate ali- 
ment for human creatures since the Flood, as I 
take it to be deduced from that permission, or 
ordinance rather, given to Noah and his de- 
scendants), I hold them in perfect contempt. 
Hay for horses. I remember a pretty apologue, 
which Mandeville tells, very much to this 
purpose, in his Fable of the Bees : — He brings 
in a Lion arguing with a Merchant, who had 
ventured to expostulate with this king of beasts 
upon his violent methods of feeding. The 



78 



LETTERS. 



Lion thus retorts : — " Savage I am ; but no 
creature can be called cruel but what either 
by malice or insensibility extinguishes his 
natural pity. The Lion was born without 
compassion ; we follow the instinct of our 
nature ; the gods have appointed us to live 
upon the waste and spoil of other animals, and 
as long as we can meet with dead ones, we 
never hunt after the living ; 'tis only man, 
mischievous man, that can make death a sport. 
Nature taught your stomach to crave nothing 
but vegetables. — (Under favour of the Lion, if 
he meant to assert this universally of mankind, 
it is not true. However, what he says pre- 
sently is very sensible.) — Your violent fond- 
ness to change, and greater eagerness after 
novelties, have prompted you to the destruc- 
tion of animals without justice or necessity. 
The Lion has a ferment within him, that 
consumes the toughest skin and hardest bones, 
as well as the flesh of all animals without 
exception. Your squeamish stomach, in which 
the digestive heat is weak and inconsiderable, 
won't so much as admit of the most tender 
parts of them, unless above half the concoction 
has been performed by artificial fire beforehand; 
and yet what animal have you spared, to 
satisfy the caprices of a languid appetite ? 
Languid, I say ; for what is man's hunger if 
compared with the Lion's ? Yours, when it is 
at the worst, makes you faint ; mine makes me 
mad : oft have I tried with roots and herbs to 
allay the violence of it, but in vain ; nothing 
but large quantities of flesh can any ways ap- 
pease it." — Allowing for the Lion not having 
a prophetic instinct to take in every lusus 
naturae that was possible of the human appe- 
tite, he was, generally speaking, in the right ; 
and the Merchant was so impressed with his 
argument that, we are told, he replied not, 
but fainted away. O, Mr. Reflector, that I 
were not obliged to add, that the creature who 
thus argues was but a type of me ! Miserable 
man ! I am that Lion. " Oft have I tried with 
roots and herbs to allay that violence, but in 

vain; nothing but ." 

Those tales which are renewed as often as 
the editors of papers want to fill up a space 
in their unfeeling columns, of great eaters, — 
people that devour whole geese and legs of 
mutton for wagers, — are sometimes attempted to 
be drawn to a parallel with my case. This 



wilful confounding of motives and circum- 
stances, which make all the difference of 
moral or immoral in actions, just suits the 
sort of talent which some of my acquaintance 
pride themselves upon. Wagers! — I thank 
Heaven, I was never mercenary, nor could 
consent to prostitute a gift (though but a left- 
handed one) of nature, to the enlarging of my 
worldly substance j prudent as the necessities, 
which that fatal gift have involved me in, 
might have made such a prostitution to appear 
in the eyes of an indelicate world. 

Rather let me say, that to the satisfaction 
of that talent which was given me, I have 
been content to sacrifice no common expecta- 
tions ; for such I had from an old lady, a near 
relation of our family, in whose good graces I 
had the fortune to stand, till one fatal even- 
ing :. You have seen, Mr. Reflector, if j 

you have ever passed your time much in 
country towns, the kind of suppers which 
elderly ladies in those places have lying in 
petto in an adjoining parlour, next to that 
where they are entertaining their periodically- 
invited coevals with cards and muffins. The 
cloth is usually spread some half-hour before 
the final rubber is decided, whence they 
adjourn to sup upon what may emphatically 
be called nothing; — a sliver of ham, purposely 
contrived to be transparent to show the china- 
dish through it, neighbouring a slip of invisible 
brawn, which abuts upon something they call 
a tartlet, as that is bravely supported by an 
atom of marmalade, flanked in its turn by a 
grain of potted beef, with a power of such 
dishlings, minims of hospitality, spread in defi- 
ance of human nature, or rather with an utter 
ignorance of what it demands. Being engaged 
at one of these card-parties, I was obliged to 
go a little before supper-time (as they face- 
tiously called the point of time in which they 
are taking these shadowy refections), and the 
old lady, with a sort of fear shining through 
the smile of courteous hospitality that beamed 
in her countenance, begged me to step into 
the next room and take something before I 
went out in the cold, — a proposal which lay 
not in my nature to deny. Indignant at the 
airy prospect I saw before me, I set to, and in 
a trice despatched the whole meal intended 
for eleven persons, — fish, flesh, fowl, pastry, — 
to the sprigs of garnishing parsley, and the 



EDAX ON APPETITE. 



79 



last fearful custard that quaked upon the 
board. I need not describe the consternation, 
when in due time the dowagers adjourned 
from their cards. Where was the supper ? — 

and the servants' answer, Mr. had eat 

it all. — That freak, however, jested me out of 
a good three hundred pounds a year, which I 
afterwards was informed for a certainty the 
old lady meant to leave me. I mention it not 
in illustration of the unhappy faculty which I 
am possessed of ; for any unlucky wag of a 
schoolboy, with a tolerable appetite, could 
have done as much without feeling any hurt 
after it, — only that you may judge whether I 
am a man likely to set my talent to sale, or to 
require the pitiful stimulus of a wager. 

I have read in Pliny, or in some author of 
that stamp, of a reptile in Africa, whose venom 
is of that hot, destructive quality, that where- 
soever it fastens its tooth, the whole substance 
of the animal that has been bitten in a few 
seconds is reduced to dust, crumbles away, 
and absolutely disappears: it is called, from 
this quality, the Annihilator. Why am I 
forced to seek, in all the most prodigious and 
portentous facts of Natural History, for crea- 
tures typical of myself ? / am that snake, that 
Annihilator: "wherever I fasten, in a few 
seconds ." 

happy sick men, that are groaning under 
the want of that very thing, the excess of 
which is my torment ! O fortunate, too fortu- 
nate, if you knew your happiness, invalids! 
What would I not give to exchange this fierce 
concoctive and digestive heat,— this rabid fury 
which vexes me, which tears and torments 
me,— for your quiet, mortified, hermit-like,, 
subdued, and sanctified stomachs, your cool, 
chastened inclinations, and coy desires for 
food! 

To what unhappy figuration of the parts 
intestine I owe this unnatural craving, I must 
leave to the anatomists and the physicians to 



determine: they, like the rest of the world, 
have doubtless their eye upon me; and as I 
have been cut up alive by the sarcasms of my 
friends, so I shudder when I contemplate the 
probability that this animal frame, when its 
restless appetites shall have ceased their 
importunity, may be cut up also (horrible 
suggestion !) to determine in what system of 
solids or fluids this original sin of my consti- 
tution lay lurking. What work will they 
make with their acids and alkalines, their 
serums and coagulums, effervescences, viscous 
matter, bile, chyle, and acrimonious juices, 
to explain that cause which Nature, who 
willed the effect to punish me for my sins, 
may no less have determined to keep in the 
dark from them, to punish them for their pre- 
sumption ! 

You may ask, Mr. Reflector, to what pur- 
pose is my appeal to you; what can you do 
for me ? Alas ! I know too well that my case 
is out of the reach of advice, — out of the reach 
of consolation. But it is some relief to the 
wounded heart to impart its tale of misery; 
and some of my acquaintance, who may read 
my case in your pages under a borrowed 
name, may be induced to give it a more 
humane consideration than I could ever yet 
obtain from them under my own. Make them, 
if possible, to reflect, that an original peculiarity 
of constitution is no crime; that not that 
which goes into the mouth desecrates a man, 
but that which comes out of it, — such as sar- 
casm, bitter jests, mocks and taunts, and ill- 
natured observations ; and let them consider, 
if there be such things (which we have all 
heard of) as Pious Treachery, Innocent Adul- 
tery, &c, whether there may not be also such 
a thing as Innocent Gluttony. 

I shall only subscribe myself, 

Your afflicted servant, 

Ed ax. 



CURIOUS FRAGMENTS, 



EXTRACTED FROM A COMMON-PLACE BOOK, WHICH BELONGED TO ROBERT BURTON, 
THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY. 



EXTRACT I. 

I Democritus Junior, have put my finish- 
ing 1 pen to a tractate Be Melancholia, this day, 
December 5, 1620. First, I blesse the Trinity, 
which hath given me health to prosecute my 
worthlesse studies thus far, and make suppli- 
cation, with a Laus Deo, if in any case these my 
poor labours may be found instrumental to 
weede out black melancholy, carking cares, 
harte-grief, from the mind of man. Sed hoc 
magis tolo quam expecto. 

I turn now to my book, i nunc liber, goe forth, 
my brave Anatomy, child of my brain-sweat, and 
yee, candidi lectores, lo ! here I give him up to 
you, even do with him what you please, my 
masters. Some, I suppose, will applaud, com- 
mend, cry him up (these are my friends) hee 
is a flos rarus, forsooth, a nonesuch, a Phoenix, 
(concerning whom see Plinius and Mandeuilh, 
though Fienus de Monstris doubteth at large of 
such a bird, whom Montaltus confuting argueth 
to have been a man malm scrupulositatis, of a 
weak and cowardlie faith : Christopherus a Vega 
is with him in this). Others again will blame, 
hiss, reprehende in many things, cry down 
altogether my collections, for crude, inept, 
putid, post coenam scripta, Coryate could write better 
upon a full meal, verbose, inerudite, and not 
sufficiently abounding in authorities, dogmata, 
sentences of learneder writers which have 
been before me, when as that first named sort 
clean otherwise judge of my labours to bee 
nothing else but a messe of opinions, a vortex 



attracting indiscriminate, gold, pearls, hay, 
straw, wood, excrement, an exchange, tavern, 
marte, for foreigners to congregate, Danes, 
Swedes, Hollanders, Lombards, so many strange 
faces, dresses, salutations, languages, all which 
Wolfius behelde with great content upon the 
Venetian Bialto, as he describes diffusedly in 
his book the World's Epitome, which Sannazar 
so bepraiseth, e contra our Polydore can see 
nothing in it ; they call me singular, a pedant, 
fantastic, words of reproach in this age, which 
is all too neoterick and light for my humour. 

One cometh to me sighing, complaining. 
He expected universal remedies in my Ana- 
tomy ; so many cures as there are distempera- 
tures among men. I have not put his affection 
in my cases. Hear you his case. My fine Sir 
is a lover, an innamorato, a Pyramus, a Romeo ; 
he walks seven years disconsolate, moping, 
because he cannot enjoy his miss ; insanusamor 
is his melancholy ; the man is mad ; ddirat, he 
dotes ; all this while his Glycera is rui % spite- 
ful, not to be entreated, churlish, spits at him, 
yet exceeding fair, gentle eyes (which is a] 
beauty), hair lustrous and smiling, the trope is 
none of mine, JEneas Sylvius hath crines ridentes 
— in conclusion she is wedded to his rival, a 
boore, a Corydon, a rustic, omnino ignarus, he can 
scarce construe Corderius, yet haughty, fantastic, 
opiniatre. The lover travels, goes into foreign 
parts, peregrinates, amoris ergo, sees manners, 
customs, not English, converses with pilgrims,.- 
lying travellers, monks, hermits, those cattle 



CURIOUS FRAGMENTS. 



81 



pedlars, travelling gentry, Egyptians, natural 
wonders, unicorns (though Aldobrandus will 
have them to be figments), satyrs, semi-viri, 
apes, monkeys, baboons, curiosities artificial, 
pyramides, Virgilius his tombe, relicks, bones, 
which are nothing but ivory as Melancthon 
judges, though Comutus leaneth to think them 
bones of dogs, cats, (why not men ?) which 
subtill priests vouch to have been saints, 
martyrs, heu Pietas! By that time he has 
ended his course, fugit hora, seven other years 
are expired, gone by, time is he should return, 
he taketh ship for Britaine, much desired of 
his friends, favebant venti, Neptune is curteis, after 
some weekes at sea he landeth, rides post to 
town, greets his family, kinsmen, compotores, 
those jokers his friends that icere wont to tipple icith 
him at Alehouses ; these wonder now to see the 
change, quantum mutatus, the man is quite another 
thing, he is disenthralled, manumitted, he won- 
ders what so bewitched him, he can now both 
see, hear, smell, handle, converse with his mis- 
tress, single by reason of the death of his rival, 
a widow having children, grown willing, prompt, 
amorous, shewing no such great dislike to se- 
cond nuptials, he might have her for asking, 
no such thing, his mind is changed, he loathes 
his former meat, had \iever eat ratsbane, 
aconite, his humour is to die a bachelour; 
marke the conclusion. In this humour of celi- 
bate seven other years are consumed in idle- 
ness, sloth, world's pleasures, which fatigue, 
satiate, induce wearinesse, vapours, tosdium 
r-itce : when upon a day, behold a wonder, r'edit 
Amor, the man is as sick as ever, he is com- 
menced lover upon the old stock, walks with 
his hand thrust in his bosom for negligence, 
moping he leans his head, face yellow, beard 
flowing and incomposite, eyes sunken, anhelus, 
breath wheezy and asthmatical,by reason of over-much 
sighing : society he abhors, solitude is but a hell, 
what shall he doe ? all this while his mistresse 
is forward, coming, amantissima, ready to jump) at 
once into his mouth, her he hateth, feels disgust 
when she is but mentioned, thinks her ugly, 
old, a painted Jesabeel, Alecto, Megara, and 
Tisiphone all at once, a Corinthian Lais, a 
strumpet, only not handsome. That which he 
aflecteth so much, that which drives him mad, 
distracted, phrenetic, beside himself, is no 
beauty which lives, nothing in rerum natura 
(so he might entertain a hope of a cure), but 



something which is not, can never be, a certain 
fantastic opinion or notional image of his mis- 
tresse, that which she was, and that which hee 
thought her to be, in former times, how beau- 
tiful ! torments him, frets him, follows him, 
makes him that he wishes to die. 

This Caprichio, Sir Humourous, hee cometh to 
me to be cured. I counsel marriage with his 
mistresse, according to Hippocrates his method, 
together with milk-diet, herbs, aloes, and wild 
parsley, good in such cases, though Avicenna 
preferreth some sorts of wild fowl, teals, 
widgeons, becca ficos, wliich men in Sussex eat. 
He flies out in a passion, ho ! ho ; and falls to 
calling me names, dizzard, ass, lunatic, moper, 
Bedlamite, Pseudo-Democritus. I smile in his 
face, bidding him be patient, tranquil; to no 
purpose, he still rages : I think this man must 
fetch his remedies from Utopia, Fairy Land, 
Islands in the Moone, &c. 

EXTRACT II. 

***** Much disputacyons of fierce wits 
amongst themselves, in logomachies, subtile 
controversies, many dry blows given on either 
side, contentions of learned men, or such as 
would be so thought, as Bodinus de Periodis 
saith of such an one, arrident amici ridet mundus, 
in English, this man his cronies they cocker 
him up, they flatter him, he would fayne 
appear somebody, meanwhile the world thinks 
him no better than a dizzard, a ninny, a 
sophist. * * 

* * * Philosophy running mad, madness phi- 
losophizing, much idle learned inquiries, what 
truth is ? and no issue, fruit, of all these noises, 
only huge books are written, and who is the 
wiser? ***** Men sitting in the Doctor's 
chair, we marvel how they got there, being 
homines intellectus pidterulenti, as Trincaudlius 
notes; they care not so they may raise a dust 
to smother the eyes of their oppugners ; homines 
parvidissimi, as Lemnius, whom Alcuin herein 
taxeth of a crude Latinism; dwarfs, minims, 
the least little men, these spend their time, 
and it is odds but they lose their time and 
wits too into the bargain, chasing of nimble 
and retiring Truth : Her they prosecute, her 
still they worship, libant, they make libations, 
spilling the wine, as those old Romans in their 
sacrificials, Cerealia, May-games: Truth is the 
game all these hunt after, to the extreme per- 



CURIOUS FRAGMENTS. 



turbacyon and drying up of the moistures, 
humidum radicate exsiccant, as Galen, in his coun- 
sels to one of these wear- wits, brain-moppers, 
spunges, saith. * * * * and for all this nunquam 
metam attingunt, and how should they? they 
bowle awry, — shooting beside the marke ; — 
whereas it should appear, that Truth absolute on 
this planet of ours is scarcely to be found, 
but in her stede Queene Opinion predominates, 
governs, whose shifting and ever mutable 
Lampas, me seemeth, is man's destinie to fol- 
low, she prsecurseth, she guideth him, before 
his uncapable eyes she frisketh her tender 
lights, which entertayne the child-man, untill 
what time his sight be strong to endure the 
vision of Very Truth, which is in the heavens, 
the vision beatifical, asAnianus expounds in his 
argument against certain mad wits which helde 
God to be corporeous ; these were dizzards, 
fools, gothamites, * * * * but and if Very Truth 
be extant indeede on earth, as some hold she 
it is which actuates men's deeds, purposes, ye 
may in vaine look for her in the learned uni- 
versities, halls, colleges. Truth is no Doc- 
toresse, she takes no degrees at Paris or 
Oxford, amongst great clerks, disputants, sub- 
tile Aristotles, men nodosi ingenii, able to take 
Lully by the chin, but oftentimes to such an one 
as myself, an Idiota or common person, no great 
things, melancholizing in woods where waters 
are, quiet places by rivers, fountains ; whereas 
the silly man expecting no such matter, thinketh 
only how best to delectate and refresh his 
mynde continually with Natura her pleasaunt 
scenes, woods, water-falls, or Art her statelie 
gardens, parks, terraces, BeMderes, on a sudden 
the goddesse herself Truth has appeared, with a 
shyning lyghte, and a sparklyng countenance, 

so as yee may not be able lightly to resist 
]j er * * * * * 

EXTRACT III. 

This morning, May 2, 1662, having first 
broken my fast upon eggs and cooling salades, 
mallows, water-cresses, those herbes, according 
to Villanovus his prescription, who disallows 
the use of meat in a morning as gross, fat, 
hebetant, feral, altogether fitter for wild beasts 
than men, e contra commendeth this herb-diete 
for gentle, humane, active, conducing to con- 
templation in most men, I betook myselfe to the 
nearest fields. (Being in London I commonly 



dwell in the suburbes, as airiest, quietest, loci 
Musis propriores, free from noises of caroches, 
waggons, mechanick and base workes, work- 
shoppes, also sights, pageants, spectacles of 
outlandish birds, fishes, crocodiles, Indians, 
mermaids ; adde quarrels, fightings, wranglings 
of the common sort, plebs, the rabble, duelloes 
with fists, proper to this island, at which the 
stiletto'd and secrete Italian laughs.) With- 
drawing myselfe from these buzzing and illite- 
rate vanities, with a bezo las manos to the city, 
I begin to inhale, draw in, snuff up, as horses 
dilatis naribus snort the fresh aires, with ex- 
ceeding great delight, when suddenly there 
crosses me a procession, sad, heavy, dolourous, 
tristfull, melancholick, able to change mirth 
into dolour, and overcast a clearer atmosphere 
than possibly the neighbourhoods of so great a 
citty can afford. An old man, a poore man 
deceased, is borne on men's shoulders to a. 
poore buriall, without solemnities of hearse, 
mourners, plumes, mutce persona), those personate 
actors that will weep if yee show them apiece of silver; 
none of those customed civilities of children, 
kinsfolk, dependants, following the coffin ; he 
died a poore man, his friends accessores opum, 
those cronies of his that stuck by him so long as he had 
a penny, now leave him, forsake him, shun him, 
desert him ; they think it much to follow his 
putrid and stinking carcase to the grave ; his 
children, if he had any, for commonly the case 
stands thus, this poore man his son dies before 
him,he survives, poore, indigent, base, dejected, 
miserable, &c, or if he have any which survive 
him, sua negotia agunt, they mind their own 
business, forsooth, cannot, will not, find time, 
leisure, inclination, extremum munus perficere, to 
follow to the pit their old indulgent father, 
which loved them, stroked them, caressed them, 
cockering them up, quantum potuit, as farre as 
his means extended, while they were babes, 
chits, minims; hee may rot in his grave, lie 
stinking in the sun for them, have no buriall at 
all, they care not. nefas ! Chiefly I noted the 
coffin to have been without a pall, nothing but a 
few planks, of cheapest wood that could be 
had, naked, having none of the ordinary symp- 
tomata of a funerall, those locidarii which bare 
the body having on diversely coloured coats, 
and none black : (one of these reported the de- 
ceased to have been an almsman seven yeares, 
a pauper, harboured and fed in the workhouse 



CURIOUS FRAGMENTS. 



83 



of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, to whose proper 
burying-ground lie was now going for inter- 
ment.) All which when I behelde, hardly I 
refrained from weeping, and incontinently I 
fell to musing : " If this man had been rich, a 
Crcesus, a Crassus, or as rich as Wldttlngton, what 
pompe, charge, lavish cost, expenditure, of rich 
buriall, ceremoniall-obsequies, obsequious ceremonies, 
had been thought too good for such an one ; 
what store of panegyricks, elogies, funeral 
orations, &c, some beggarly poetaster, worthy 
to be beaten for his ill rimes, crying 
him up, hee was rich, generous, bountiful, 
polite, learned, a Maecenas, while as in very 
deede he was nothing lesse : what weeping, 



sighing, sorrowing, honing, complaining, kins- 
men, friends, relatives, fourtieth cousins, poor 
relatives, lamenting for the deceased ; hypo- 
criticall heirs, sobbing, striking their breasts 
(they care not if he had died a year ago) ; so 
many clients, dependants, flatterers, parasites, 
cunning Gnathoes, tramping on foot after the 
hearse, all their care is, who shall stand fairest 
with the successour ; he mean time (like 
enough) spurns them from him, spits at them, 
treads them under his foot, will have nought to 
do with any such cattle. I think him in the 
right : Hose sunt majora gravitate Heracliti. These 
follies are enough to give drying Heraclitus a fit of 
the spleens. 



MR. H 



& if am, 

IN TWO ACTS, 
AS IT WAS PERFORMED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, DECEMBER, 1806. 

" Mr. H , thou wert damned. Bright shone the morning on the play-bills that announced thy 

appearance, and the streets were filled with the buzz of persons asking one another if they would go to see 

Mr. H , and answering that they would certainly ; but before night the gaiety, not of the author, but 

of his friends and the town, was eclipsed, for thou wert damned! Hadst thou been anonymous, thou haply 
mightst have lived. But thou didst come to an untimely end for thy tricks, and for want of a better name 
to pass them off " Theatrical Examiner. 



CHARACTERS. 



Mr. H- 



Mr. Ellis ton. 
Mr. Bartley. 
Mr. Wewitzer. 



Belvil, ...... 

Landlord Pry, ..... 

Melesinda, Miss Mellon. 

Maid to Melesinda, ..... Mrs. Harlowe. 



Gentlemen, Ladies, Waiters, Servants, &c. 
Scene — Bath. 



PROLOGUE. 



SPOKEN BY MR. ELLISTON. 



If we have sinn'd in paring down a name, 
All civil well-bred authors do the same. 
Survey the columns of our daily writers — 
You'll find that some Initials are great fighters. 
How fierce the shock, how fatal is the jar, 
When Ensign W. meets Lieutenant R. 
With two stout- seconds, just of their own gizzard, 
Cross Captain X. and rough old General Izzard ! 
Letter to Letter spreads the dire alarms, 
Till half the Alphabet is up in arms. 
Nor with less lustre have Initials shone, 
To grace the gentler annals of Crim. Con. 
Where the dispensers of the public lash 

Soft penance give ; a letter and a dash . 

Where Vice reduced in size shrinks to a failing, 
And loses half her grossness by curtailing. 
Faux pas are told in such a modest way, — 
"The affair of Colonel B— with Mrs. A—" 
You must forgive them — for what is there, say, 
Which such a pliant Vowel must not grant 
To such a very pressing Consonant ? 



Or who poetic justice dares dispute, 

When, mildly melting at a lover's suit, 

The wife's a Liquid, her good man a Mute ? 

Even in the homelier scenes of honest life, 

The coarse-spun intercourse of man and wife, 

Initials I am told have taken place 

Of Deary, Spouse, and that old-fashioned race ; 

And Cabbage, ask'd by brother Snip to tea, 

Replies " I'll come — but it don't rest with me — 

I always leaves them things to Mrs. C." 

O should this mincing fashion ever spread 

From names of living heroes to the dead, 

How would Ambition sigh, and hang the head, 

As each loved syllable should melt away — 

Her Alexander turned into Great A — 

A single C. her Caesar to express — 

Her Scipio shrunk into a Roman S — 

And, nick'd and dock'd to these new modes of speech, 

Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H . 



Mr. H- 



A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS. 



ACT I. 



Scene. — A Public Room in an Inn. Landlord, 
Waiters, Gentlemen, §c. 

Enter Mr. H. 

Mr. H. Landlord, has the man brought home 
my boots ? 

Landlord. Yes, Sir. 

Mr. H. You have paid him ? 

Landlord. There is the receipt, Sir, only not 
quite filled up, no name, only blank — " Blank, 
Dr. to Zekiel Spanish for one pair of best 
hessians." Now, Sir, he wishes to know what 
name he shall put in, who he shall say " Dr." 

Mr. H. Why, Mr. H. to be sure. 

Landlord. So I told him, Sir ; but Zekiel 
has some qualms about it. He says he thinks 
that Mr. H. only would not stand good in law. 

Mr. H. Rot his impertinence ! Bid him 
put in Nebuchadnezzar, and not trouble me 
with his scruples. 

Landlord. I shall, Sir. [Exit. 

Enter a Waiter. 

Waiter. Sir, Squire Level's man is below, 
with a hare and a brace of pheasants for Mr. H. 

Mr. H. Give the man half-a-crown, and bid 
him return my best respects to his master. 
Presents, it seems, will find me out, with any 
name or no name. 

Enter 2d Waiter. 

2d Waiter. Sir, the man that makes up the 
Directory is at the door. 

Mr. H. Give him a shilling ; that is what 
these fellows come for. 

*2d Waiter. He has sent up to know by what 
name your Honour will please to be inserted. 



Mr. H. Zounds, fellow, I give him a shilling 
for leaving out my name, not for putting it in. 
This is one of the plaguy comforts of going 
anonymous. [Exit 2d Waiter. 

Enter 3d Waiter. 

3d Waiter. Two letters for Mr. H. [Exit. 

Mr. H. From ladies {opens them). This from 
Melesinda, to remind me of the morniDg call 
I promised ; the pretty creature positively 
languishes to be made Mrs. H. I believe I 
must indulge her {affectedly). This from her 
cousin, to bespeak me to some party, I suppose 
{opening it). — Oh, " this evening" — "Tea and 
cards " — {surveying himself with complacency). 
Dear H., thou art certainly a pretty fellow. I 
wonder what makes thee such a favourite 
among the ladies : I wish it may not be owing 

to the concealment of thy unfortunate 

pshaw ! 

Enter 4th Waiter. 

4th Waiter. Sir, one Mr. Printagain is in- 
quiring for you. 

Mr. II. Oh, I remember, the poet ; he is 
publishing by subscription. Give him a 
guinea, and tell him he may put me down. 

4th Waiter. "What name shall I tell him, 
Sir? 

Mr. H. Zounds, he is a poet ; let him fancy 
a name. [Exit 4th Waiter. 

Enter 5th Waiter. 
5th Waiter. Sir, Bartlemy the lame beggar, 
that you sent a private donation to last Mon- 
day, has by some accident discovered his bene- 
factor, and is at the door waiting to return 
thanks. 



88 



MR. H- 



A FAKCE. 



Mr. II. Oh, poor fellow, who could put it 
into his head ? Now I shall be teazed by all 
his tribe, when once this is known. "Well, tell 
him I am glad I could be of any service to 
him, and send him away. 

5th Walter. I would have done so, Sir ; but 
the object of his call now, he says, is only to 
know who he is obliged to. 

Mr. H. Why, me. 

5th Waiter. Yes, Sir. 

Mr. H. Me, me, me ; who else, to be sure ? 

5th Waiter. Yes, Sir ; but he is anxious to 
know the name of his benefactor. 

Mr. H. Here is a pampered rogue of a 
beggar, that cannot be obliged to a gentleman 
in the way of his profession, but he must know 
the name, birth, parentage, and education of 
his benefactor ! I warrant you, next he will 
require a certificate of one's good behaviour, 
and a magistrate'* licence in one's pocket, 

lawfully empowering so and so to give an 

alms. Any thing more? 

5th Waiter. Yes, Sir; here has been Mr. 
Patriot, with the county petition to sign ; and 
Mr. Failtime, that o-wts so much money, has 
sent to remind you of your promise to bail 
him. 

Mr. H. Neither of which I can do, while 
I have no name. Here is more of the plaguy 
comforts of going anonymous, that one can 
neither serve one's friend nor one's country. 
Damn it, a man had better be without a nose, 
than without a name. I will not live long in 
this mutilated, dismembered state ; I will to 
Melesinda this instant, and try to forget these 
vexations. Melesinda ! there is music in the 
name ; but then, hang it ! there is none in mine 
to answer to it. [Exit. 



yWhile Mr. H. has been speaking, two Gentlemen 
have been observing him curiously.) 

1st Gent. Who the devil is this extraordinary 
personage ? 

2d Gent. Who ? why 'tis Mr. H. 

1st Gent. Has he no more name ? 

2d Gent. None that has yet transpired. No 
more ! why that single letter has been enough 
to inflame the imaginations of all the ladies in 
Bath. He has been here but a fortnight, and 
is already received into all the first families. 

1st Gent. Wonderful ! yet, nobody know who 
he is, or where he comes from ! 



2d Gent. He is vastly rich, gives away money 
as if he had infinity ; dresses well, as you see ; 
and for address, the mothers are all dying for 
fear the daughters should get him ; and for 
the daughters, he may command them as ab- 
solutely as . Melesinda, the rich heiress, 

'tis thought, will carry him. 

1st Gent. And is it possible that a mere 
anonymous. — 

2d Gent. Phoo ! that is the charm. — Who is 
he ? and what is he ? and what is his name ? 

The man with the great nose on his face 

never excited more of the gaping passion of 
wonderment in the dames of Strasburg, than 
this new-comer, with the single letter to his 
name, has lighted up among the wives and 
maids of Bath : his simply having lodgings 
here, draws more visiters to the house than an 
election. Come with me to the Parade, and I 
will show you more of him. [Exeunt. 



Scene in the Street. 
Mr. H. walking, Belvil 

Belvil. My old Jamaica schoolfellow, that I 
have not seen for so many years % it must — it 
can be no other than Jack {going up to him). 
My dear Ho ■ 

Mr. II. {Stopping his mouth). Ho ! the 

devil, hush. 

Belvil. Why sure it is — 

Mr. H. It is, it is your old friend Jack, that 
shall be nameless. 

Belvil. My dear Ho 

Mr. H. {Stopping him). Don't name it. 

Belvil. Name what ? 

Mr. II. My curst unfortunate name. I have 
reasons to conceal it for a time. 

Belvil. I understand you — Creditors, Jack ? 

Mr. H. No, I assure you. 

Belvil. Snapp'd up a ward, peradventure, 
and the whole Chancery at your heels ? 

Mr. H. I don't use to travel with such cum- 
bersome luggage. 

Belvil. You ha'n't taken a purse ? 

Mr. H. To relieve you at once from all 
disgraceful conjectures, you must know, 'tis 
nothing but the sound of my name. 

Belvil. Ridiculous ! 'tis true yours is none of 
the most romantic ; but what can that signify 
in a man ? 



MR. H , A FARCE. 



8? 



Mr. H. You must understand that I am in 
some credit with the ladies. 

Behil. With the ladies ! 

Mr. H. And truly I think not without some 
pretensions. My fortune — 

Belvil. Sufficiently splendid, if I may judge 
from your appearance. 

Mr. H. My figure — 

Belvil. Airy, gay, and imposing. 

Mr. H. My parts- 

Belvil. Bright. 

Mr. II. My conversation — 

Belvil. Equally remote from flippancy and 
taciturnity. 

Mr. H. But then my name — damn my name ! 

Belvil. Childish ! 

Mr. H. Not so. Oh, Belvil, you are blest 
with one which sighing virgins may repeat 
without a blush, and for it change the paternal. 
But what virgin of any delicacy (and I re- 
quire some in a wife) would endure to be called 
Mrs. ? 

Belvil. Ha, ha, ha ! most absurd. Did not 
Clementina Falconbridge, the romantic Cle- 
mentina Falconbridge, fancy Tommy Potts ? 
and Rosabella Sweetlips sacrifice her melH- 
fluous appellative to Jack Deady ? Matilda 
her cousin married a Gubbins, and her sister 
Amelia a Clutterbuck. 

Mr. H. Potts is tolerable, Deady is suffer- 
able, Gubbins is bearable, and Clutterbuck is 
endurable, but Ho 

Belvil. Hush, Jack, don't betray yourself. 
But you are really ashamed of the family 
name? 

Mr. H. Ay, and of my father that begot 
me, and my father's father, and all their fore- 
fathers that have borne it since the Con- 
quest. 

Belvil. But how do you know the women 
are so squeamish ? 

Mr. H. I have tried them. I tell you there 
is neither maiden of sixteen nor widow of 
sixty but would turn up their noses at it. I 
have been refused by nineteen virgins, twenty- 
nine relicts, and two old maids. 

Belvil. That was hard indeed, Jack. 

Mr. H. Parsons have stuck at publishing 
the banns, because they averred it was a 
heathenish name ; parents have lingered their 
consent, because they suspected it was a fic- 
titious name ; and rivals have declined my 



challenges, because they pretended it was an 
ungentlemanly name. 

Behil. Ha, ha, ha ! but what course do you 
mean to pursue ? 

Mr. H. To engage the affections of some 
generous girl, who will be content to take me 
as Mr. H. 

Behil. Mr. H. ? 

Mr. II. Yes, that is the name I go by here ; 
you know one likes to be as near the truth as 
possible. 

Belvil. Certainly. But what then ? to get 
her to consent — 

Mr. H. To accompany me to the altar with- 
out a name in short, to suspend her curiosity 

(that is all) till the moment the priest shall 
pronounce the irrevocable charm, which makes 
two names one. 

Behil. And that name and then she 

must be pleased, ha, Jack ? 

Mr, H. Exactly such a girl it has been my 

fortune to meet with ; hark'e (whispers) 

(musing) Yet, hang it ! 'tis cruel to betray her 
confidence. 

Belvil. But the family name, Jack ? 

Mr. H. As you say, the family name must 
be perpetuated. 

Behil. Though it be but a homely one. 

Mr. H. True ; but come, I will show you 
the house where dwells this credulous melting 
fair. 

Belvil. Ha, ha ! my old friend dwindled 
down to one letter. [Exeunt. 



Scene . — An Apartment in Melesinda' s House. 
Melesinda sola, as if musing. 
Melesinda. H, H, H. Sure it must be some- 
thing precious by its being concealed. It can't 
be Homer, that is a Heathen's name ; nor 
Horatio, that is no surname ; what if it be 
Hamlet ? the Lord Hamlet — pretty, and I his 
poor distracted Ophelia ! No, 'tis none of 
these ; 'tis Harcourt or Hargrave, or some 
such sounding name, or Howard, high-born 
Howard, that would do ; maybe it is Harley, 
methiuks my H. resembles Harley, the feeling 
Harley. But I hear him ; and from his own 
lips I will once for ever be resolved^ 



88 



MR. II- 



A FARCE. 



Enter Mr. H. 

Mr. B. My dear Melesinda. 

Melesinda. My dear II. that is all you give 
me power to swear allegiance to, — to be 
enamoured of inarticulate sounds, and call 
with sighs upon an empty letter. But I will 
know. 

Mr. II. My dear Melesinda, press me no 
more for the disclosure of that, which in the 
face of day so soon must be revealed. Call it 
whim, humour, caprice, in me. Suppose I 
have sworn an oath, never, till the ceremony 
of our marriage is over, to' disclose my true 
name. 

Melesinda. Oh! H, H, H. I cherish here 
a fire of restless curiosity which consumes me. 
"lis appetite, passion, call it whim, caprice, in 
me. Suppose I have sworn, I must and will 
know it this very night. 

Mr. II. Ungenerous Melesinda ! I implore 
you to give me this one proof of your con- 
fidence. The holy vow once past, your II. 
shall not have a secret to withhold. 

Melesinda. My II. has overcome : his Mele- 
sinda shall pine away and die, before she dare 
express a saucy inclination ; but what shall I 
call you till we are married ? 

Mr. H. Call me ? call me any thing, call me 
Love. Love ! ay Love : Love will do very 
well. 

Melesinda. How many syllables is it, Love ? 

Mr. II. How many ? ud, that is coming to 
the question with a vengeance ! One, two 
three, four, — what does it signify how many 
syllables ? 

Melesinda. How many syllables, Love ? 

Mr. H. My Melesinda's mind, I had hoped, 
was superior to this childish curiosity. 

Melesinda. How many letters are there in it ? 
[Exit Mr. H. followed by Melesinda, 
repeating the question.'] 



Scene. — A Room in the Inn. 

{Two Waiters disputing?) 

1st Waiter. Sir Harbottle Hammond, you 
may depend upon it. 

2d Waiter. Sir Harry Hardcastle, I tell you. 

1st Waiter. The Hammonds of Huntingdon- 
shire. 



2d Waiter. The Hardcastles of Hertford- 
shire. 

1st Waiter. The Hammonds. 

2d Waiter. Don't tell me : does not Hard- 
castle begin with an II ? 

1st Waiter. So does Hammond, for that 
matter. 

2d Waiter. Faith, so it does, if you go to spell 
it. I did not think of that. I begin to be of 
your opinion ; he is certainly a Hammond. 

1st Waiter. Here comes Susan Chambermaid' 
maybe she can tell. 

Enter Susan. 

Both. Well, Susan, have you heard anything 
who the strange gentleman is ? 

Susan. Haven't you heard ? it's all come out! 
Mrs. Guesswell, the parson's widow, has been 
here about it. I overheard her talking in con- 
fidence to Mrs. Setter and Mrs. Pointer, and 
she says they were holding a sort of a cummitty 
about it. 

Both. What? What? 

Susan. There can't be a doubt of it, she says, 
what from his figgcr and the appearance he cuts, 
and his sumpshous way of living, and above all 
from the remarkable circumstance that his sur- 
name should begin with an H,that he must be — 

Both. Well, well— 

Susan. Neither more nor less than the Prince — 

Both. Prince ! 

Susan. The Prince of Hessey-Cassel in dis- 
guise. 

Both. Very likely, very likely. 

Susan. Oh, there can't be a doubt on it. Mrs. 
Guesswell says she knows it. 

1st Waiter. Now if we could be sure that the 
Prince of Hessy what-do-you-call-him was in 
England on his travels. 

2d Waiter. Get a newspaper. Look in the 
newspapers. 

Susan. Fiddle of the newspapers ; who else 
can it be ? 

Both. That is very true (gravely); 

Enter Landlord* 
Landlord. Here, Susan, James,' Philip, where 
are you all ? The London coach is come in 
and there is Mr. Fillaside, the fat passenger, 
has been bawling for somebody to help him off 
with his boots. 

{The Chambermaid and Waiters slip out.) 



MR. M- 



-, A FARCE. 



89 



(Solus.) The house is turned upside down 
since the strange gentleman came into it. 
Nothing but guessing and speculating, and 
speculating and guessing ; waiters and cham- 
bermaids getting into corners and speculating ; 
ostlers and stable-boys speculating in the yard ; 
I believe the very horses in the stable are specu- 
lating too, for there they stand in a musing pos- 
ture, nothing for them to eat, and not seeming to 
care whether they have anything or no ; and 
after all what does it signify? I hate such 

curious odso, I must take this box up into 

his bed-room — he charged me to see to it my- 
self; — I hate such inquisitive 1 wonder what 

is in it — it feels heavy ; (reads) " Leases, title- 
deeds, wills." Here now a man might satisfy 
his curiosity at once. Deeds must have names 
to them, so must leases and wills. But I 

wouldn't— no I wouldn't it is a pretty box 

too — prettily dovetailed — I admire the fashion 
of it much. But I'd cut my fingers off, before 
I'd do such a dirty — what have I to do — curse 
the keys, how they rattle ! — rattle in one's 
pockets — the keys and the halfpence (takes out 
a bunch and plays with them). I wonder if any 
of these would fit ; one might just try them, 
but I would not lift up the lid if they did. Oh 
no, what should I be the richer for knowing ? 
(All this time he tries the keys one by one). What's 
his name to me ? a thousand names begin with 
an H. I hate people that are always prying, 
poking and prying into things, — thrusting their 
finger into one place — a mighty little hole this 
— and their keys into another. Oh Lord ! little 
rusty fits it ! but what is that to me ? I wouldn't 
go to — no, no — but it is odd little rusty should 
just happen — (While he is turning up the lid of 
the box, Mr. H. enters behind him unperceixed. ) 

Mr. H. What are you about, you dog ? 

Landlord. Oh Lord, Sir ! pardon ; no thief, 
as I hope to be saved. Little Pry was always 
honest. 

Mr. H. What else could move you to open 
that box ? 

Landlord. Sir, don't kill me, and I will con- 
fess the whole truth. This box happened to 
be lying— that is, I happened to be carrying 
this box, and I happened to have my keys out, 
and so — little rusty happened to fit 

Mr. II. So little rusty happened to fit ! — and 
would not a rope fit that rogue's neck ? I see 
the papers have not been moved : all is safe, 



but it was as well to frighten him a little 
(aside). Come, Landlord, as I think you honest, 
and suspect you only intended to gratify a 
little foolish curiosity 

Landlord. That was all, Sir, upon my veracity. 

Mr. II. For this time I will pass it over. 
Your name is Pry, I think ? 

Landlord. Yes, Sir, Jeremiah Pry, at your 
service. 

Mr. II. An apt name : you have a prying 
temper — I mean, some little curiosity — a sort 
of inquisitiveness about you. 

Landlord. A natural thirst after knowledge 
you may call it, Sir. When a boy, I was never 
easy but when I was thrusting up the lids of 
some of my school-fellows' boxes, — not to steal 
anything, upon my honour, Sir, — only to see 
what was in them ; have had pens stuck in 
my eyes for peeping through key-holes, after 
knowledge ; could never see a cold pie with 
the legs dangling out at top, but my fingers 
were for lifting up the crust, — just to try if it 
were pigeon or partridge, — for no other rea- 
son in the world. Surely I think my passion 
for nuts was owing to the pleasure of cracking 
the shell to get at something concealed, more 
than to any delight I took in eating the kernel. 
In short, Sir, this appetite has grown with my 
growth. 

Mr. II. You will certainly be hanged some 
day for peeping into some bureau or other, 
just to see what is in it. 

Landlord. That is my fear, Sir. The thumps 
and kicks I have had for peering into parcels, 
and turning of letters inside out — just for 
curiosity ! The blankets I have been made to 
dance in for searching parish registers for old 
ladies' ages, — just for curiosity ! Once I was 
dragged through a horse-pond, only for peep- 
ing into a closet that had glass doors to it, 
while my Lady Bluegarters was undressing, — - 
just for curiosity ! 

Mr. H. A very harmless piece of curiosity, 
truly ; And now, Mr. Pry, first have the good- 
ness to leave that box with me, and then do 
me the favour to carry your curiosity so far, 
as to inquire if my servants are within. 

Landlord. I shall, Sir. Here, David, Jona- 
than, — I think I hear them coming, — shall 
make bold to leave you, Sir. [Exit. 

Mr. II. Another tolerable specimen of the 
comforts of going anonymous ! 



'JO 



MR. H- 



A FARCE. 



Enter two Footmen. 

1st Footman. You speak first. 

2d Footman. No, you bad better speak. 

1st Footman. You promised to begin. 

Mr. H. They have something to say to me. 
The rascals want their wages raised, I suppose ; 
there is always a favour to be asked when they 
come smiling. Well, poor rogues, service is 
but a hard bargain at the best. I think I must 
not be close with them. Well, David — well, 
Jonathan. 

1st Footman. We have served your honour 
faithfully 

2d Footman. Hope your honour won't take 
offence 

Mr. H. The old story, I suppose— wages ? 

1st Footman. That's not it, your honour. 

2d Footman. You speak. 

1st Footman. But if your honour would just 
be pleased to 

2d Footman. Only be pleased to 

Mr. H. Be quick with what you have to say, 
for I am in haste. 

1st Footman. Just to 

2d Footman. Let us know who it is 

1st Footman. Who it is we have the honour 
to serve. 

Mr. H. Why me, me, me ; you serve me. 

2d Footman. Yes, Sir ; but we do not know 
who you are. 

Mr. H. Childish curiosity ! do not you serve 
a rich master, a gay master, an indulgent 
master ? 

1st Footman. Ah, Sir ! the figure you make 
is to us, your poor servants, the principal 
mortification. 



2d. Footman. When we get over a pot at 
the public-house, or in a gentleman's kitchen, 
or elseAvhere, as poor servants must have their 
pleasures — when the question goes round, 
who is your master ? and who do you serve ? 
and one. says, I serve Lord So-and-so, and 
another, I am Squire Such-a-one's footman 

1st Footman. We have nothing to say for it, 
but that we serve Mr. H. 

2d Footman. Or Squire H. 

Mr. H. Really you are a couple of pretty 
modest, reasonable personages ! but I hope 
you will take it as no offence, gentlemen, if, 
upon a dispassionate review of all that you 
have said, I think fit not to tell you any more 
of my name, than I have chosen for especial 
purposes to communicate to the rest of the 
world. 

1st Footman. Why, then, Sir, you may suit 
yourself. 

2d Footman. We tell you plainly, we cannot 
stay. 

1st Footman. We don't choose to serve 
Mr. H. 

2d Footman. Nor any Mr. or Squire in the 
alphabet 

1st Footman. That lives in Chris-cross Row. 

Mr. H. Go, for a couple of ungrateful, 
inquisitive, senseless rascals ! Gro hang, starve, 
or drown, — Rogues, to speak thus irreverently 
of the alphabet — I shall live to see you glad 
to serve old Q — to curl the wig of great S — 
adjust the dot of little i — stand behind the 
chair of X, Y, Z — wear the livery of Et- 
csetera — and ride behind the sulky of And-by- 
itself-and ! [Exit in a rage. 



END OF THE FIRST ACT. 



MR. H- 



A FARCE. 



91 



ACT II. 



Scene.— A handsome Apartment well lighted, Tea, 

Cards, §c. — A large party of Ladies and Gentle- 
men; among them Melesinda. 

Is* Lady. I wonder when the charming man 
will be here. 

2d Lady. He is a delightful creature ! Such 
a polish 

3d Lady. Such an air in all that he does or 
says 

4th Lady. Yet gifted with a strong under- 
standing 

5th Lady. But has your ladyship the remotest 
idea of what his true name is ? 

Is* Lady. They say his very servants do not 
know it. His French valet, that has lived with 
him these two years > 

2d Lady. There, Madam, I must beg leave to 
set you right : my coachman 

1st Lady. I have it from the very best autho- 
rity : my footman 

2d Lady. Then, Madam, you have set your 
servants on 

Is* Lady. No, Madam, I would scorn any 
such little mean ways of coming at a secret. 
For my part, I don't think any secret of that 
consequence. 

2d Lady. That's just like me ; I make a rule 
of troubling my head with nobody's business 
but my own. 

Melesinda. But then she takes care to make 
everybody's business her own, and so to 

justify herself that way . (Aside.) 

1st Lady. My dear Melesinda, you look 
thoughtful. 

Melesinda. Nothing. 

2d Lady. Give it a name. 

Melesinda. Perhaps it is nameless. 

Is* Lady. As the object Come, never 

blush, nor deny it, child. Bless me, what 
great ugly thing is that, that dangles at your 



This ? it is a cross : how do you 



Melesi: 
like it ? 



2d Lady. A cross ! Well, to me it looks for 
all the world like a great staring H. 

(Here a general laugh.) 
Melesinda. Malicious creatures ! Believe me 
it is a cross, and nothing but a cross. 

Is* Lady. A cross, I believe, you would will- 
ingly hang at. 
Melesinda. Intolerable spite ! 

(Mr. H. is announced?) 

Enter Mr. H. 

Is* Lady. 0, Mr. H. we are so glad 

2d Lady. We have been so dull ■ 

3d Lady. So perfectly lifeless You owe 

it to us, to be more than commonly entertain- 
ing. 

Mr. H. Ladies, this is so obliging 

4th Lady. 0, Mr. H. those ranunculas you 
said were dying, pretty things, they have got 

up 

5th Lady. I have worked that sprig- you com- 
mended — I want you to come 

Mr. H. Ladies ■ 

6th Lady. I have sent for that piece of music 
from London. 

Mr. H. The Mozart — (seeing Melesinda) — 
Melesinda ! 

Several Ladies at once. Nay, positively, Mele- 
sinda, you shan't engross him all to yourself. 
(Wliile the Ladies are pressing about Mr. 
H., the Gentlemen show signs of dis- 
pleasure.) 
1st Gent. We shan't be able to edge in a 
word, now this coxcomb is come. 

2d Gent. Damn him, I will affront him. 
Is* Gent. Sir, with your leave, I have a word 
to say to one of these ladies. 

2d Gent. If we could be heard 

(The Ladies pay no attention but to Mr. H,) 

Mr. H. You see, gentlemen, how the matter 

stands. (Hums an air.) I am not my own 

I master : positively I exist and breathe but to 

! be agreeable to these Did you speak ? 



92 



MR. H- 



A FARCE. 



1st Gent. And affects absence of mind — 
Puppy ! 

Mr. H. Who spoke of absence of mind ; 
did you, Madam ? How do you do, Lady 
Wearwell — how do ? I did not see your lady- 
ship before — what was I about to say — — 
absence of mind. I am the most unhappy dog 
in that way, sometimes spurt out the strangest 
things — the most mal-a-propos — without mean- 
ing to give the least offence, upon my honour 
— sheer absence of mind — things I would have 
given the world not to have said. 

1st Gent. Do you hear the coxcomb ? 

1st- Lady. Great wits, they say 

2d Lady. You fine geniuses are most 
given 

3d Lady. Men of bright parts are commonly 
too vivacious 

Mr. H. But you shall hear. I was to dine 
the other day at a great Nabob's that must be 
nameless, who, between ourselves, is strongly 
suspected of — being very rich, that's all. John, 
my valet, who knows my foible, cautioned me, 
while he was dressing me, as he usually does 
where he thinks there's a danger of my com- 
mitting a lapsus, to take care in my conversa- 
tion how I made any allusion direct or indirect 
to presents— you understand me ? I set out 
double charged with my fellow's consideration 
and my own ; and, to do myself justice, behaved 
with tolerable circumspection for the first half- 
hour or so— till at last a gentleman in com- 
pany, who was indulging a free vein of raillery 
at the expense of the ladies, stumbled upon 
that expression of the poet, which calls them 
" fair defects." 

1st Lady. It is Pope, I believe, who says it. 

Mr. H. No, madam ; Milton. Where was 
I ? O, " fair defects." This gave occasion to a 
critic in company, to deliver his opinion on 
the phrase — that led to an enumeration of all 
the various words which might have been used 
instead of " defect," as want, absence, poverty, 
deficiency, lack. This moment I (who had not 
been attending to the progress of the argu- 
ment, as the denouement will show), starting 
suddenly up out of one of my reveries, by 
some unfortunate connexion of ideas, which 
the last fatal word had excited, the devil put 
it into my head to turn round to the Nabob, 
who was sitting next me, and in a very marked 
manner (as it seemed to the company) to put 



the question to him, Pray, Sir, what may be 
the exact value of a lack of rupees ? You 
may guess the confusion which followed. 

1st Lady. What a distressing circumstance ! 

2d Lady. To a delicate mind 

3d Lady. How embarrassing 

4th Lady. I declare, I quite pity you. 

1st Gent. Puppy ! 

Mr. H. A Baronet at the table, seeing my 
dilemma, jogged my elbow ; and a good-natured 
Duchess, who does everything with a grace 
peculiar to herself, trod on my toes at that 
instant: this brought me to myself, and — 
covered with blushes, and pitied by all the 
ladies — I withdrew. 

1st Lady. How charmingly he tells a story. 

2d Lady. But how distressing ! 

Mr. II. Lord Squandercounsel, who is my 
particular friend, was pleased to rally me in 
his inimitable way upon it next day. I shall 
never forget a sensible thing he said on the 
occasion — speaking of absence of mind, my 
foible — says he, my dear Hogs 

Several Ladies. Hogs what — ha — 

Mr. H. My dear Hogsflesh — my name — 
(Jiere a universal scream) — O my cursed unfor- 
tunate tongue ! — H. I mean — where was I ? 

1st Lady. Filthy — abominable ! 

2d Lady. Unutterable ! 

3d Lady. Hogs foh ! 

4th Lady. Disgusting ! 

5th Lady. Vile! 

6th Lady. Shocking ! 

] st Lady. Odious ! 

2d Lady. Hogs pah ! 

3d Lady. A smelling bottle — look to Miss 
Melesinda. Poor thing ! it is no wonder. You 
had better keep off from her, Mr. Hogsflesh, 
and not be pressing about her in her circum- 
stances. 

Is* Gent. Good time of day to you, Mr. 
Hogsflesh. 

2d Gent. The compliments of the season to 
you, Mr. Hogsflesh. 

Mr. II. This is too much — flesh and blood 
cannot endure it. 

1st Gent. What flesh ?— hogVflesh ? 

2d Gent. How he sets up his bristles ! 

Mr. II. Bristles ! 

1st Gent. He looks as fierce as a hog in armour. 

Mr. H. A hog ! Madam ! {here he 

severally accosts the Ladies, who by turns repel him.)\ 



MR. H- 



A FARCE. 



U3 



1st Lady. Extremely obliged to you for your 
attentions ; but don't want a partner. 

2d Lady. Greatly flattered by your prefer- 
ence ; but believe I sball remain single. 

3d Lady. Shall always acknowledge your 
politeness ; but have no thoughts of altering 
my condition. 

4th Lady. Always be happy to respect you 
as a friend ; but you must not look for any- 
thing further. 

5th Lady. No doubt of your ability to make 
any woman happy ; but have no thoughts of 
changing my name. 

6th Lady. Must tell you, Sir, that if, by your 
insinuations, you think to prevail with me, 
you have got the wrong sow by the ear. Does 
he think any lady would go to pig with him ? 

Old Ladij. Must beg you to be less particular 
in your addresses to me. Does he take me 
for a Jew, to long after forbidden meats ? 

Mr. H. I shall go mad ! — to be refused by 
old Mother Damnable — she that's so old, 
nobody knows whether she was ever married 
or no, but passes for a maid by courtesy ; her 
juvenile exploits being beyond the farthest 
stretch of tradition ! — old Mother Damnable ! 
[Exeunt ally either pitying or seeming to avoid him. 



Scene. — The Street. 
Belvil and another Gentleman. 

Belvil. Poor Jack, I am really sorry for him. 
The account which you give me of his morti- 
fying change of reception at the assembly, 
would be highly diverting, if it gave me less 
pain to hear it: With all his amusing absurd- 
ities, and amongst them not the least, a pre- 
dominant desire to be thought well of by the 
fair sex, he has an abundant share of good- 
nature, and is a man of honour. Notwith- 
standing all that has happened, Melesinda 
may do worse than take him yet. But did 
the women resent it so deeply as you say ? 

Gent. O, intolerably — they fled him as fear- 
fully when 'twas once blown, as a man would 
be avoided, who was suddenly discovered to 
have marks of the plague, and as fast ; when 
before they had been ready to devour the 
foolishest thing he could say. 

Belvil. Ha ! ha ! so frail is the tenure by 
which these women's favourites commonly 



hold their envied pre-eminence. Well, I must 
go find him out and comfort him. I suppose 
I shall find him at the inn. 

Gent. Either there or at Melesinda's — Adieu! 

[Exeunt. 



Scene. — Mr. H 's Apartment. 

Mr. H. (solus.) Was ever anything so 
mortifying? to be refused by old Mother 
Damnable ! — with such parts and address,— 
and the little squeamish devils, to dislike me 
for a name, a sound. — my cursed name ! 
that it was something I could be revenged on ! 
if it were alive, that I might tread upon it, or 
crush it, or pummel it, or kick it, or spit it 
out — for it sticks in my throat and will choke 
me. 

My plaguy ancestors ! if they had left me 
but a Van or a Mac, or an Irish 0', it had 
been something to qualify it. — Mynheer Van 
Hogsflesh, — or Sawny Mac Hogsflesh, — or Sir 
Phelim 0' Hogsflesh, — but downright blunt 

. If it had been any other name in 

the world, I could have borne it. If it had 
been the name of a beast, as Bull, Fox, Kid, 
Lamb, Wolf, Lion ; or of a bird, as Sparrow, 
Hawk, Buzzard, Daw, Finch, Nightingale ; or 
of a fish, as Sprat, Herring, Salmon ; or the 
name of a thing, as Ginger, Hay, Wood ; or of 
a colour, as Black, Grey, White, Green ; or of 
a sound, as Bray ; or the name of a month, as 
March, May ; or of a place, as Barnet, Baldock, 
Hitchen ; or the name of a coin, as Farthing, 
Penny, Twopenny ; or of a profession, as 
Butcher, Baker, Carpenter, Piper, Fisher, 
Fletcher, Fowler, Glover ; or a Jew's name, 
as Solomons, Isaacs, Jacobs ; or a personal 
name, as Foot, Leg, Crookshanks, Heaviside, 
Sidebottom, Longbottom, Ramsbottom, Win- 
terbottom ; or a long name, as Blanchenhagen, 
or Blanchenhausen ; or a short name, as Crib, 
Crisp, Crips, Tag, Trot, Tub, Phips, Padge, 
Papps, or Prig, or Wig, or Pip, or Trip ; Trip 

had been something, but Ho . (Walks 

about in great agitation — recovering his calmness a 
little, sits down.) 

Farewell the most distant thoughts of mar- 
riage ; the finger-circling ring, the purity- 
figuring glove, the envy-pining bridemaids, 
the wishing parson, and the simpering clerk. 
Farewell the ambiguous blush-raising joke, 



M 



MR. H- 



A FARCE. 



the titter-provoking pun, the morning-stirring 
drum. — No son of mine shall exist, to bear 
my ill-fated name. No nurse come chuckling, 
to tell me it is a boy. No midwife, leering at 
me from under the lids of professional gravity. 
I dreamed of caudle. — (Sings in a melancholy 
tone.) Lullaby, Lullaby, — hush-a-by-baby — 
how like its papa it is ! — (makes motions as if he 
toas nursing.) And then, whe.n grown up, " Is 
this your son, Sir ?" " Yes, Sir, a poor copy 
of me, a sad young dog, — just what his father 
was at his age, — I have four more at home." 
Oh ! oh ! oh ! 

Enter Landlord. 

Mr. H. Landlord, I must pack up to-night ; 
you will see all my things got ready. 

Landlord. Hope your Honour does not intend 
to quit the Blue Boar, — sorry anything has 
happened. 

Mr. H. He has heard it all. 

Landlord. Your Honour has had some mor- 
tification, to be sure, as a man may say ; you 
have brought your pigs to a fine market. 

Mr. H. Pigs ! 

Landlord. What then ? take old Pry's advice, 
and never mind it. Don't scorch your crack- 
ling for 'em, Sir. 

Mr. H. Scorch my crackling ! a queer phrase; 
but I suppose he don't mean to affront me. 

Landlord. What is done can't be undone ; 
you can't make a silken purse out of a sow's ear. 

Mr. H. As you say, Landlord, thinking of a 
thing does but augment it. 

Landlord. Does but Iwgment it, indeed, Sir. 

Mr. H. Hogment it ! damn it, I said augment it. 

Landlord. Lord, Sir, 'tis not everybody has 
such gift of fine phrases as your Honour, that 
can lard his discourse — 

Mr. H. Lard ! 

Landlord. Suppose they do smoke you — 

Mr. H. Smoke me ! 

Landlord. One of my phrases ; never mind 
my words, Sir, my meaning is good. We all 
mean the same thing, only you express yourself 
one way, and I another, that's all. The meaning 
the same ; it is all pork. 

Mr. H. That's another of your phrases, I 
presume. (Bell rings, and the Landlord called for?) 

Landlord. Anon, anon. 

Mr. H. O, I wish I were anonymous. 

[Exeunt several ways. 



Scene — Melesinda's Apartment. 
Melesinda and Maid. 

Maid. Lord, Madam ! before I'd take on as 
you do about a foolish — what signifies a name? 
Hogs — Hogs — what is it—is just as good as any 
other, for what I see. 

Melesinda. Ignorant creature ! yet she is 
perhaps blest in the absence of those ideas, 
which, while they add a zest to the few pleasures 
which fall to the lot of superior natures to 
enjoy, doubly edge the 

Maid. Superior natures ! a fig ! If he's hog 
by name he's not hog by nature, that don't 
follow — his name don't make him anything, 
does it ? He don't grunt the more for it, nor 
squeak, that ever I hear : he likes his victuals 
out of a plate, as other Christians do ; you never 
see him go to the trough" 

Melesinda. Unfeeling wretch ! yet possibly 
her intentions 

Maid. For instance, Madam, my name is 
Finch — Betty Finch. I don't whistle the more 
for that, nor long after canary-seed while I can 
get good wholesome mutton — no, nor you can't 
catch me by throwing salt on my tail. If you 
come to that, hadn't I a young man used to 
come after me, they said courted me — his 
name was Lion, Francis Lion, a tailor; but 
though he was fond enough of me, for all that 
he never offered to eat me. 

Melesinda. How fortunate that the discovery 
has been made before it was too late ! Had I lis- 
tened to his deceits, and, as the perfidious man 
had almost persuaded me, precipitated myself 
into an inextricable engagement before 

Maid. No great harm, if you had. You'd 
only have bought a pig in a poke — and what 
then ? Oh, here he comes creeping 

Enter Mr. H. abject. 
Go to her, Mr. Hogs— Hogs — Hogsbristles, 
what's your name ? Don't be afraid, man — don't 
give it up — she's not crying — only summat has 
made her eyes red — she has got a sty in her 
eye, I believe — (going). 

Melesinda. You are not going, Betty ? t 

Maid. O, Madam, never mind me— I shall 

be back in the twinkling of a pig's whisker, as 

they say. [Exit. 

Mr. H. Melesinda, you behold before you a 

wretch who would have betrayed your confH 



MR. H- 



A FARCE. 



95 



dence — but it was love that prompted him ; who 
would have trick'd you, by an unworthy con- 
cealment, into a participation of that disgrace 
which a superficial world has agreed to attach 
to a name — hut with it you would have shared 
a fortune not contemptible, and a heart — but 
'tis over now. That name he is content to bear 
alone — to go where the persecuted syllables 
shall be no more heard, or excite no meaning — 
some spot where his native tongue has never 
penetrated, nor any of his countrymen have 
landed, to plant their unfeeling satire, their 
brutal wit, and national ill manners — whereno 
Englishmen — {Here Melesinda, who has been 
pouting during this speech, fetches a deep sigh). Some 
yet undiscovered Otaheite, where witless? 
unapprehensive savages shall innocently pro- 
nounce the ill-fated sounds, and think them not 
inharmonious. 

Melesinda. Oh! 

Mr. H. Who knows but among the female 
natives might be found 

Melesinda. Sir ! {raising her head.) 

Mr. H. One who would be more kind than 
— some Oberea — Queen Oberea. 

Melesinda. Oh ! 

Mr. H. Or what if I were to seek for proofs 
of reciprocal esteem among unprejudiced 
African maids, in Monomotopa ? 



Enter Servant. 
Servant . Mr. Belvil. 



[Exit. 



Enter Belvil. 

Mr. H. Monomotopa {musing). 

Belvil. Heyday, Jack ! what means this 
mortified face ? nothing has happened, I hope, 
between this lady and you ? I beg pardon, 
Madam, but understanding my friend was with 
you, I took the liberty of seeking him here. 
Some little difference possibly which a third 
person can adjust — not a word. Will you, 
Madam, as this gentleman's friend, suffer me 
to be the arbitrator — strange — hark'ee, Jack, 
nothing has come out, has there ? you under, 
stand me. Oh, I guess how it is — somebody 
has got at your secret, you hav'n't blabbed 
it yourself, have you ? ha ! ha ! ha ! I could 
find in my heart — Jack, what would you give 
me if I should relieve you ? 

Mr. H. No power of man can relieve me 
{sighs); but it must lie at the root, gnawing at 
the root— here it will lie. 



Belvil. No power of man ? not a common 
man, I grant you : for instance, a subject — it's 
out of the power of any subject. 

Mr. H. Gnawing at the root — there it will 
lie. 

Belvil. Such a thing has been known as a 
name to be changed ; but not by a subject — 
{shows a Gazette.) 

Mr.H. Gnawing at the root — {suddenly snatches 
the paper om^o/Belvil's hand) — ha ! pish ! non- 
sense ! give it me — what ! {reads) promotions, 
bankrupts— a great many bankrupts this week 
— there it will lie. {Lays it doi.cn, takes it up again, 
and reads.) a The King has been graciously 
pleased" — gnawing at the root — " graciously 
pleased to grant unto John Hogsflesh" — the 
devil — " Hogsflesh, Esq. of Sty Hall, in the 
county of Hants, his royal licence and 
authority"— Lord ! Lord !— " that he and 
his issue" — me and my issue — u may take 
and use the surname and arms of Bacon " — 
Bacon, the surname and arms of Bacon — " in 
pursuance of an injunction contained in the 
last will and testament of Nicholas Bacon, 
Esq. his late uncle, as well as out of grateful 
respect to his memory : " — grateful respect ! 

poor old soul here's more — " and that such 

arms may be first duly exemplified" — they 
shall, I will take care of that — " according to 
the laws of arms, and recorded in the Herald's 
Office." 

Belvil. Come, Madam, give me leave to put 
my own interpretation upon your silence, and 
to plead for my friend, that now that only 
obstacle which seemed to stand in the way of 
your union is removed, you will suffer me to 
complete the happiness which my news seems 
to have brought him, by introducing him with 
a new claim to your favour, by the name of 
Mr. Bacon. {Takes their hands and joins them, 
which Melesinda seems to give consent to with a 
smile.) 

Mr.H. Generous Melesinda! my dear friend 
— " he and his issue," me and my issue .' — 
Lord !— 

Belvil. I wish you joy, Jack, with all my 
heart. 

Mr. H. Bacon, Bacon, Bacon — how odd it 
sounds ! I could never be tired of hearing it. 
There was Lord Chancellor Bacon. Methinks 
I have some of the Verulam blood in me al- 
ready — Methinks I could look through Nature 



m 



MR. H- 



A FARCE. 



— there was Friar Bacon, a conjuror — I feel 
as if I could conjure too 

Enter a Servant. 

Servant. Two young ladies and an old lady- 
are at the door, inquiring if you see company, 
Madam. 

Mr. H. " Surname and arms " — 

Melesinda. Show them up. — My dear Mr. 
Bacon, moderate your joy. 

Enter three Ladies, being part of those who were at 
the Assembly. 

1st Lady. My dear Melesinda, how do you 
do? 

2d Lady. How do you do ? We have been 
so concerned for you 

Old Lady. We have been so concerned — 
(seeing him) — Mr. Hogsflesh 

Mr. H. There's no such person — nor there 
never was — nor 'tis not fit there should be — 
" surname and arms " 

Belvil. It is true what my friend would ex- 
press ; we have been all in a mistake, ladies. 
Very true, the name of this gentleman was 
what you call it, but it is so no longer. The 
succession to the long-contested Bacon estate 
is at length decided, and with it my friend 
succeeds to the name of his deceased relative. 

Mr. H. " His Majesty has been graciously 
pleased " — 

1st Lady. I am sure we all join in hearty 
congratulation (sighs). 



2d Lady. And wish you joy with all our 
hearts (heigh ho J) 

Old Lady. And hope you will enjoy the 
name and estate many years (cries). 

Belvil. Ha ! ha ! ha ! mortify them a little, 
Jack. 

1st Lady. Hope you intend to stay 

2c? Lady. With us some time ■ 

Old Lady. In these parts 

Mr. H. Ladies, for your congratulations I 
thank you ; for the favours you have lavished 
on me, and in particular for this lady's (turning 
to the old Lady) good opinion, I rest your debtor. 
As to any future favours — (accosts them severally in 
the order in which he was refused by them at the assem- 
bly) —Madam, shall always acknowledge your 
politeness ; but at present, you see, I am en- 
gaged with a partner. Always be happy to 
respect you as a friend, but you must not look 
for anything further. Must beg of you to 
be less particular in your addresses to me. 
Ladies all, with this piece of advice, of Bath 
and you 

Your ever grateful servant takes his leave. 
Lay your plans surer when you plot to grieve ; 
See, while you kindly mean to mortify 
Another, the wild arrow do not fly 
And gall yourself. For once you've been mis- 
taken ; 
Your shafts have miss'd their aim — Hogsflesh 
has saved his Bacon. 



THE END. 



.4Vf«W)N ! 
fcP.AOBIJRY AW» R»ANS, PRIN^RRS, IVHTTEFRTARS. 



ELI A 



FIRST SERIES. 






CONTENTS, 



PAGK 

THE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE ' . . . . 1 

OXFORD IN THE VACATION 5 

CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-THIRTY YEARS AGO ....... 8 

THE TWO RACES OF MEN 14 

NEW-YEAR'S EVE • 17 

MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST . . 20 

A CHAPTER ON EARS 23 

ALL FOOLS' DAY 26 

A QUAKER'S MEETING 28 

THE OLD AND THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER . 30 

IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES ....... 35 

WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT FEARS 39 

VALENTINE'S DAY . . • 42 

MY RELATIONS 44 

MACKERY END, IN HERTFORDSHIRE 47 

MY FHIST PLAY 49 

MODERN GALLANTRY . & 

THE OLD BENCHERS OF THE INNER TEMPLE . . 54 

GRACE BEFORE MEAT .59 



CONTENTS. 



PA6E 

DREAM-CHILDREN ; A REVERIE . 63 

DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS .... = ., 65 

THE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS . . 68 

A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OF BEGGARS IN THE METROPOLIS . . .71 

A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG .75 

A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT OF THE BEHAVIOUR OF MARRIED PEOPLE . . 79 

ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS . 83 

ON THE ARTIFICIAL COMEDY OF THE LAST CENTURY 89 

ON THE ACTING OF MUNDEN . . 93 



E L 1 A. 



THE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE. 



Reader, in thy passage from the Bank — 
where thou hast been receiving thy half-yearly 
dividends (supposing thou art a lean annuitant 
lite myself) — to the Flower Pot, to secure a 
place for Dalston, or Shacklewell, or some other 
thy suburban retreat northerly, — didst thou 
never observe a melancholy-looking, handsome, 
brick and stone edifice, to the left — where 
Threadneedle-street abuts upon Bishopsgate % 
I dare say thou hast often admired its magni- 
ficent portals ever gaping wide, and disclosing 
to view a grave court, with cloisters, and pillars, 
with few or no traces of goers-in or comers-out 
— a desolation something like Balclutha's.* 

This was once a house of trade, — a centre of 
busy interests. The throng of merchants was 
I here — the quick pulse of gain — and here some 
I forms of business are still kept up, though the 
I soul be long since fled. Here are still to be 
I seen stately porticos ; imposing staircases, 
v offices roomy as the state apartments in palaces 
! —deserted, or thinly peopled with a few 
straggling clerks ; the still more sacred in- 
teriors of court and committee-rooms, with 
venerable faces of beadles, door-keepers — 
directors seated in form on solemn days (to 
proclaim a dead dividend), at long worm-eaten 
tables, that have been mahogany, with tar- 
nished gilt-leather coverings, supporting massy 
silver inkstands long since dry ; — the oaken 

* I passed by the walls of Balclutha, and they were 
desolate.— Ossian. 



wainscots hung with pictures of deceased 
governors and sub-governors, of queen Anne, 
and the two first monarchs of the Brunswick 
dynasty ; — huge charts, which subsequent dis- 
coveries have antiquated ; dusty maps of Mex- 
ico, dim as dreams, — and soundings of the Bay 
of Panama ! The long passages hung with 
buckets, appended, in idle row, to walls, whose 
substance might defy any, short of the last, 
conflagration : — with vast ranges of cellarage 
under all, where dollars and pieces-of-eight 
once lay, an " unsunned heap," for Mammon 
to have solaced his solitary heart withal, — 
long since dissipated, or scattered into air at 
the blast of the breaking of that famous 

Bubble. 

Such is the South-Sea House. At least, 
such it was forty years ago, when I knew it, — 
a magnificent relic ! What alterations may 
have been made in it since, I have had no 
opportunities of verifying. Time, I take for 
granted, has not freshened it. No wind has 
resuscitated the face of the sleeping waters. 
A thicker crust by this time stagnates upon it. 
The moths, that were then battening upon its 
obsolete ledgers and day-books, have rested 
from their depredations, but other light gene- 
rations have succeeded, making fine fretwork 
among their single and double entries. Layers 
of dust have accumulated (a superfoetation of 
dirt !) upon the old layers, that seldom used to 
be disturbed, save by some curious finger, now 



ELIA. 



and then, inquisitive to explore the mode of 
book-keeping in Queen Anne's reign ; or, with 
less hallowed curiosity, seeking to unveil some 
of the mysteries of that tremendous hoax, 
whose extent the petty peculators of our day 
look back upon with the same expression of 
incredulous admiration, and hopeless ambition 
of rivalry, as would become the puny face of 
modern conspiracy contemplating the Titan 
size of Vaux's superhuman plot. 

Peace to the manes of the Bubble ! Silence 
and destitution are upon thy walls, proud house, 
for a memorial ! 

Situated as thou art, in the very heart of 
stirring and living commerce, — amid the fret 
and fever of speculation — with the Bank, and 
the 'Change, and the India-house about thee, 
in the hey-day of present prosperity, with their 
important faces, as it were, insulting thee, their 
poor neighbour out of business — to the idle and 
merely contemplative, — to such as me, old 
house ! there is a charm in thy quiet : — a ces- 
sation — a coolness from business — an indolence 
almost cloistral — which is delightful ! With 
what reverence have I paced thy great bare 
rooms and courts at eventide ! They spoke of 
the past : — the shade of some dead accountant, 
with visionary pen in ear, would flit by me, 
stiff as in life. Living accounts and accountants 
puzzle me. I have no skill in figuring. But 
thy great dead tomes, which scarce three 
degenerate clerks of the present day could lift 
from their enshrining shelves — with their old 
fantastic flourishes, and decorative rubric inter- 
lacings — their sums in triple columniations, set 
down with formal superfluity of ciphers — with 
pious sentences at the beginning, without which 
our religious ancestors never ventured to open 
a book of business, or bill of lading — the costly 
vellum covers of some of them almost per- 
suading us that we are got into some better 
library, — are very agreeable and edifying 
spectacles. I can look upon these defunct 
dragons with complacency. Thy .heavy odd- 
shaped ivory-handled pen-knives (our ancestors 
had everything on a larger scale than we have 
hearts for) are as good as anything from Her- 
culaneum. The pounce-boxes of our days have 
gone retrograde. 

The very clerks which I remember in the 
South Sea House — I speak of forty years back 
— had an air very different from those in the 



public offices that I have had to do with since. 
They partook of the genius of the place ! 

They were mostly (for the establishment did 
not admit of superfluous salaries) bachelors. 
Generally (for they had not much to do) persons 
of a curious and speculative turn of mind. 
Old-fashioned, for a reason mentioned before. 
Humourists, for they were of all descriptions ; 
and, not having been brought together in early 
life (which has a tendency to assimilate the 
members of corporate bodies to each other), 
but, for the most part, placed in this house in 
ripe or middle age, they necessarily carried 
into it their separate habits and oddities, un- 
qualified, if I may so speak, as into a common 
stock Hence they formed a sort of Noah's 
ark. Odd fishes. A lay-monastery. Domestic 
retainers in a great house, kept more for show 
than use. Yet pleasant fellows, full of chat — 
and not a few among them had arrived at con- 
siderable proficiency on the German flute. 

The cashier at that time was one Evans, a 
Cambro-Briton. He had something of the 
choleric complexion of his countrymen stamped 
on his visage, but was a worthy sensible man 
at bottom. He wore his hair, to the last, pow- 
dered and frizzed out, in the fashion which I 
remember to have seen in caricatures of what 
were termed, in my young days, Maccaronies, 
He was the last of that race of beaux. Melan- 
choly as a gib-cat over his counter all the 
forenoon, I think I see him, making up his 
cash (as they call it) with tremulous fingers, as 
if he feared every one about him was a defaulter ; 
in his hypochondry ready to imagine himself 
one ; haunted, at least, with the idea of the 
possibility of his becoming one; his tristful 
visage clearing up a little over his roast neck 
of veal at Anderton's at two (where his picture 
still hangs, taken a little before his death by 
desire of the master of the coffee-house, which 
he had frequented for the last five-and-twenty 
years), but not attaining the meridian of its 
animation till evening brought on the hour of 
tea and visiting. The simultaneous sound of 
his well-known rap at the door with the stroke 
of the clock announcing six, was a topic of 
never-failing mirth in the families which this 
dear old bachelor gladdened with his presence. 
Then was his forte, his glorified hour ! How 
would he chirp, and expand, over a muffin ! 
How would he dilate into secret history ! His 



THE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE. 



countryman, Pennant himself, in particular, 
could not be more eloquent than he in relation 
to old and new London — the site of old theatres, 
churches, streets gone to decay — where Rosa- 
mond's Pond stood — the Mulberry-gardens — 
and the Conduit in Cheap — with many a pleasant 
anecdote, derived from paternal tradition, of 
those grotesque figures which Hogarth has im- 
mortalized in his picture of Noon, — the worthy 
descendants of those heroic confessors, who, 
flying to this country, from the wrath of Louis 
the Fourteenth and his dragoons, kept alive 
the flame of pure religion in the sheltering 
obscurities of Hog-lane, and the vicinity of the 
Seven Dials ! 

Deputy, under Evans, was Thomas Tame. 
He had the air and stoop of a nobleman. You 
would have taken him for one, had you met 
him in one of the passages leading to West- 
minster-hall. By stoop, I mean that gentle 
bending of the body forwards, which, in great 
men, must be supposed to be the effect of an 
habitual condescending attention to the appli- 
cations of their inferiors. While he held you 
in converse, you felt strained to the height in 
the colloquy. The conference over, you were 
at leisure to smile at the comparative insigni- 
ficance of the pretensions which had just awed 
you. His intellect was of the shallowest order. 
It did not reach to a saw or a proverb. His 
mind was in its original state of white paper. 
A sucking-babe might have posed him. What 
was it then ? Was he rich ? Alas, no ! Thomas 
Tame was very poor. Both he and his wife 
looked outwardly gentlefolks, when I fear all 
was not well at all times within. She had a 
neat meagre person, which it was evident she 
had not sinned in over-pampering ; but in its 
veins was noble blood. She traced her descent, 
by some labyrinth of relationship, which I 
never thoroughly understood, — much less can 
explain with any heraldic certainty at this 
time of day, — to the illustrious, but unfortunate 
house of Derwentwater. This was the secret 
of Thomas's stoop. This was the thought— the 
sentiment — the bright solitary star of your 
lives, — ye mild and happy pair, — which cheered 
you in the night of intellect, and in the obscurity 
of your station ! This was to you instead of 
riches, instead of rank, instead of glittering- 
attainments : and it was worth them altogether. 
You insulted none with it ; but, while you wore 



it as a piece of defensive armour only, no insult 
likewise could reach you through it. Decus et 
solamen. 

Of quite another stamp was the then account- 
ant, John Tipp. He neither pretended to high 
blood, nor, in good truth, cared one fig about 
the matter. He " thought an accountant the 
greatest character in the world, and himself 
the greatest accountant in it." Yet John was 
not without his hobby. The fiddle relieved his 
vacant hours. He sang, certainly, with other 
notes than to the Orphean lyre. He did, indeed, 
scream and scrape most abominably. His fine 
suite of official rooms in Threadneedle-street, 
which, without anything very substantial ap- 
pended to them, were enough to enlarge a man's 
notions of himself that lived in them, (I know 
not who is the occupier of them now,) resounded 
fortnightly to the notes of a concert of " sweet 
breasts," as our ancestors would have called 
them, culled from club-rooms and orchestras — ■ 
chorus singers — first and second violoncellos — 
double basses — and clarionets — who ate his 
cold mutton, and drank his punch, and praised 
his ear. He sate like Lord Midas among them. 
But at the desk Tipp was quite another sort of 
creature. Thence all ideas., that were purely 
ornamental, were banished. You could not 
speak of anything romantic without rebuke. 
Politics were excluded. A newspaper was 
thought too refined and abstracted. The whole 
duty of man consisted in writing off dividend 
warrants. The striking of the annual balance 
in the company's books (which, perhaps, differed 
from the balance of last year in the sum of 
251. Is. 6d.) occupied his days and nights for a 
month previous. Not that Tipp was blind to 
the deadness of things (as they call them in 
the city) in his beloved house, or did not sigh 
for a return of the old stirring days when 
South Sea hopes were young — (he was indeed 
equal to the wielding of any the most intricate 
accounts of the most flourishing company in 
these or those days) : — but to a genuine ac 
countant the difference of proceeds is as nothing. 
The fractional farthing is as dear to his heart 
as the thousands which stand before it. He is 
the true actor, who, whether his part be a prince 
or a peasant, must act it with like intensity. 
With Tipp form was everything. His life was 
formal. His actions seemed ruled with a ruler. 

His pen was not less erring than bis heart. 
B 2 



ELIA. 



He made the best executor in the world ; he 
was plagued with incessant executorships ac- 
cordingly, which excited his spleen and soothed 
his vanity in equal ratios. He would swear 
(for Tipp swore) at the little orphans, whose 
rights he would guard with a tenacity like the 
grasp of the dying hand, that commended their 
interests to his protection. With all this there 
was about him a sort of timidity — (his few 
enemies used to give it a worse name) — a some- 
thing which, in reverence to the dead, we will 
place, if you please, a little on this side of the 
heroic. Nature certainly had been pleased to 
endow John Tipp with a sufficient measure of 
the principle of self-preservation. There is a 
cowardice which we do not despise, because it 
has nothing base or treacherous in its elements ; 
it betrays itself, not you : it is mere tempera- 
ment ; the absence of the romantic and the 
enterprising ; it sees a lion in the way, and will 
not, with Fortinbras, " greatly find quarrel in 
a straw," when some supposed honour is at 
stake. Tipp never mounted the box of a stage- 
coach in his life ; or leaned against the rails of 
a balcony ; or walked upon the ridge of a 
parapet ; or looked down a precipice ; or let 
off a gun ; or went upon a water-party • or 
would willingly let you go, if he could have 
helped it : neither was it recorded of him, that 
for lucre, or for intimidation, he ever forsook 
friend or principle. 

Whom next shall we summon from the 
dusty dead, in whom common qualities become 
uncommon ? Can I forget thee, Henry Man, 
the wit, the polished man of letters, the author, 
of the South Sea House ? who never enteredst 
thy office in a morning, or quittedst it in mid- 
day — (what didst thou in an office ?) — without 
some quirk that left a sting ! Thy gibes and 
thy jokes are now extinct, or survive but in 
two forgotten volumes, which I had the good 
fortune to rescue from a stall in Barbican, not 
three days ago, and found thee terse, fresh, 
epigrammatic, as alive. Thy wit is a little gone 
by in these fastidious days — thy topics are 
staled by the " new-born gauds " of the time : 
— but great thou used to be in Public Ledgers, 
and in Chronicles, upon Chatham, and Shel- 
burne, and Rockingham, and Howe, and Bur- 
goyne, and Clinton, and the war which ended 
in the tearing from Great Britain her re- 
bellious colonies,— and Keppel, and Wilkes, 



and Sawbridge, and Bull, and Dunning, and 
Pratt, and Richmond, — and such small poli- 
tics. 

A little less facetious, and a great deal more 
obstreperous, was fine rattling, rattle-headed 
Plumer. He was descended, — not in a right 
line, reader, (for his lineal pretensions, like his 
personal, favoured a little of the sinister bend,) 
from the Plumers of Hertfordshire. So tradition 
gave him out ; and certain family features not 
a little sanctioned the opinion. Certainly old 
Walter Plumer (his reputed author) had been 
a rake in his days, and visited much in Italy, 
and had seen the world. He was uncle, 
bachelor-uncle to the fine old whig still living, 
who has represented the county in so many 
successive parliaments, and has a fine old man- 
sion near Ware. Walter flourished in George 
the Second's days, and was the same who was 
summoned before the House of Commons about 
a business of franks, with the old Duchess of 
Marlborough. You may read of it in John- 
son's Life of Cave. Cave came off cleverly in 
that business. It is certain our Plumer did 
nothing to discountenance the rumour. He 
rather seemed pleased whenever it was, with 
all gentleness, insinuated. But, besides his 
family pretensions, Plumer was an engaging 
fellow, and sang gloriously. 

Not so sweetly sang Plumer as thou sangest, 

mild, child-like, pastoral M ; a flute's 

breathing less divinely whispering than thy 
Arcadian melodies, when, in tones worthy of 
Arden, thou didst chant that song sung by 
Amiens to the banished Duke, which proclaims 
the winter wind more lenient than for a man 
to be ungrateful. Thy sire was old surly 

M , the unapproachable church-warden of 

Bishopsgate. He knew not what he did, when 
he begat *thee, like spring, gentle offspring of 
blustering winter : — only unfortunate in thy 
ending, which should have been mild, concili- 
atory, swan-like. 

Much remains to sing. Many fantastic shapes 
rise up, but they must be mine in private:—} 
already I have fooled the reader to the top of 
his bent ; — else could I omit that strange 
creature Woollett, who existed in trying the 
question, and bought litigations? — and still 
stranger, inimitable, solemn Hepworth, from 
whose gravity Newton might have deduced the 
law of gravitation. How profoundly would he 



OXFORD IN THE VACATION. 



nib a pen — with what deliberation would he 
wet a wafer ! 

But it is time to close — night's wheels are 
rattling fast over me — it is proper to have done 
with this solemn mockery. 

Reader, what if I have been playing with 
thee all this while ? — peradventure the very 



names, which I have summoned up before thee, 
are fantastic — insubstantial — like Henry Pim- 
pernel, and old John Naps of Greece : 

Be satisfied that something answering to 
them has had a being. Their importance is 
from the past. 



OXFORD IN THE VACATION. 



Casting a preparatory glance at the bottom 
of this article — as the wary connoisseur in 
prints, with cursory eye, (which, while it reads, 
seems as though it read not,) never fails to 
consult the quis sculpsit in the corner, before he 
pronounces some rare piece to be a Vivares, or 

a Woollet methinks I hear you exclaim, 

Reader, Who is Elia ? 

Because in my last I tried to divert thee 
with some half-forgotten humours of some old 
clerks defunct, in an old house of business, long 
since gone to decay, doubtless you have already 
set me down in your mind as one of the self- 
same college a votary of the desk — a notched 

and cropt scrivener — one that sucks his sus- 
tenance, as certain sick people are said to do, 
through a quill. 

Well, I do agnize something of the sort. I 
confess that it is my humour, my fancy — in 
the fore-part of the day, when the mind of 
your man of letters requires some relaxation — 
(and none better than such as at first sight 
seems most abhorrent from his beloved studies) 
■ — to while away some good hours of my time 
in the contemplation of indigos, cottons, raw 
silks, piece-goods, flowered or otherwise. In 
the first place ****** 
and then it sends you home with such increased 
appetite to your books * * * * 

not to say, that your outside sheets, and waste 
wrappers of foolscap, do receive into them, 
most kindly and naturally, the impression of 
sonnets, epigrams, essays— so that the very 
parings of a counting-house are, in some sort, 
the settings up of an author. The enfranchised 
quill, that has plodded all the morning among 
the cart-rucks of figures and ciphers, frisks 
and curvets so at its ease over the flowery 



carpet-ground of a midnight dissertation. — It 
feels its promotion. ***** 
So that you see, upon the whole, the literary 
dignity of Elia is very little, if at all, compro- 
mised in the condescension. 

Not that, in my anxious detail of the many 
commodities incidental to the life of a public 
office, I would be thought blind to certain 
flaws, which a cunning carper might be able to 
pick in this Joseph's vest. And here I must 
have leave, in the fulness of my soul, to regret 
the abolition, and doing-away-with altogether, 
of those consolatory interstices, and sprinklings 
of freedom, through the four seasons, — the red- 
letter days, now become, to all intents and pur- 
poses, dead-letter days. There was Paul, and 
Stephen, and Barnabas — 

Andrew and John, men famous in old times 
— we were used to keep all their days holy, as 
long back as I was at school at Christ's. I 
remember their effigies, by the same token, in 
the old Basket Prayer Book. There hung 

Peter in his uneasy posture holy Bartlemy 

in the troublesome act of flaying, after the 

famous Marsyas by Spagnoletti. 1 honoured 

them all, and could almost have wept the 
defalcation of Iscariot — so much did we love to 
keep holy memories sacred : — only methought 
I a little grudged at the coalition of the better 
Jude with Simon — clubbing (as it were) their 
sanctities together, to make up one poor 
gaudy-day between them — as an economy 
unworthy of the dispensation. 

These were bright visitations in a scholar's 
and a clerk's life — " far off their coming shone." 
— I was as good as an almanac in those days. 
I could have told you such a saint's-day falls 
out next week, or the week after. Peradven- 



ELIA. 



ture the Epiphany, by some periodical infeli- 
city, would, once in six years, merge in a 
Sabbath. Now am I little better than one of 
the profane. Let me not be thought to arraign 
the wisdom of my civil superiors, who have 
judged the further observation of these holy 
tides to be papistical, superstitious. Only in 
a custom of such long standing, methinks, if 
their Holinesses the Bishops had, in decency, 

been first sounded but I am wading out of 

my depths. I am not the man to decide the 

limits of civil and ecclesiastical authority 

I am plain Elia — no Selden, nor Archbishop 
Usher — though at present in the thick of their 
books, here in the heart of learning, under the 
shadow of the mighty Bodley. 

I can here play the gentleman, enact the 
student. To such a one as myself, who has 
been defrauded in his young years of the sweet 
food of academic institution, nowhere is so 
pleasant, to while away a few idle weeks at, 
as one or other of the Universities. Their 
vacation, too, at this time of the year, falls in 
so pat with ours. Here I can take my walks 
unmolested, and fancy myself of what degree 
or standing I please. I seem admitted ad 
eundem. I fetch up past opportunities. I 
can rise at the chapel-bell, and dream that it 
rings for me. In moods of humility I can be 
a Sizar, or a Servitor. "When the peacock 
vein rises, I strut a Gentleman Commoner. 
In graver moments, I proceed Master of Arts. 
Indeed I do not think I am much unlike that 
respectable character. I have seen your dim- 
eyed vergers, and bed-makers in spectacles, 
drop a bow or a curtsy, as I pass, wisely mis- 
taking me for something of the sort. I go 
about in black, which favours the notion. 
Only in Christ Church reverend quadrangle, 
I can be content to pass for nothing short of a 
Seraphic Doctor. 

The walks at these times are so much one's 
own, — the tall trees of Christ's, the groves of 
Magdalen ! The halls deserted, and with open 
doors inviting one to slip- in unperceived, and 
pay a devoir to some Founder, or noble or 
royal Benefactress (that should have been 
ours), whose portrait seems to smile upon their 
over-looked beadsman, and to adopt me for 
their own. Then, to take a peep in by the 
way at the butteries, and sculleries, redolent 
of antique hospitality : the immense caves of 



kitchens, kitchen fire-places, cordial recesses ; 
ovens whose first pies were baked four centuries 
ago ; and spits which have cooked for Chaucer ! 
Not the meanest minister among the dishes 
but is hallowed to me through his imagination, 
and the Cook goes forth a Manciple. 

Antiquity ! thou wondrous charm, what art 
thou ? that, being nothing, art everything ! 
When thou wert, thou wert not antiquity — then 
thou wert nothing, but hadst a remoter antiquity, 
as thou calledst it, to look back to with blind 
veneration ; thou thyself being to thyself flat, 
jejime, modern ! What mystery lurks in this 
retroversion ? or what half Januses * are we, 
that cannot look forward with the same 
idolatry with which we for ever revert ! The 
mighty future is as nothing, being every- 
thing ! the past is everything, being nothing ! 

What were thy dark ages ? Surely the sun 
rose as brightly then as now, and man got him 
to his work in the morning. Why is it we can 
never hear mention of them without an accom- 
panying feeling, as though a palpable obscure 
had dimmed the face of things, and that our 
ancestors wandered to and fro groping ! 

Above all thy rarities, old Oxenford, what 
do most arride and solace me, are thy reposi- 
tories of mouldering learning, thy shelves 

What a place to be in is an old library ! It 
seems as though all the souls of all the writers, 
that have bequeathed their labours to these 
Bodleians, were reposing here, as in some 
dormitory, or middle state. I do not want to 
handle, to profane the leaves, their winding- 
sheets. I could as soon dislodge a shade. I 
seem to inhale learning, walking amid their 
foliage ; and the odour of their old moth- 
scented coverings is fragrant as the first bloom 
of those sciential apples which grew amid the 
happy orchard. 

Still less have I curiosity to disturb the 
elder repose of MSS. Those varias lectiones,. 
so tempting to the more erudite palates, do 
but disturb and unsettle my faith. I am no 
Herculanean raker. The credit of the three 
witnesses might have slept unimpeached for 
me. I leave these curiosities to Porson, and 
to G. D. — whom, by the way, I found busy as 
a moth over some rotten archive, rummaged 
out of some seldom-explored press, in a nook 
at Oriel. With long poring, he is grown 
* Januses of one face. — Sir Thomas Browne. 



OXFORD IN THE VACATION, 



almost into a book. He stood as passive as one 
by the side of the old shelves. I longed to new- 
coat him in russia, and assign him his place. 
He might have mustered for a tall Scapula. 

D. is assiduous in his visits to these seats of 
learning. No inconsiderable portion of his 
moderate fortune, I apprehend, is consumed 
in journeys between them and Clifford's-inn 

where, like a dove on the asp's nest, he 

has long taken up his unconscious abode, amid 
an incongruous assembly of attorneys, attorneys' 
clerks, apparitors, promoters, vermin of the law, 
among whom he sits "in calm and sinless 
peace." The fangs of the law pierce him not 
— the winds of litigation blow over his humble 
chambers — the hard sheriff's officer moves his 
hat as he passes — legal nor illegal discourtesy 
touches him — none thinks of offering violence 
or injustice to him — you would as soon " strike 
an abstract idea." • 

D. has been engaged, he tells me, through a 
course of laborious years, in an investigation 
into all curious matter connected with the two 
Universities ; and has lately lit upon a MS. 

collection of charters, relative to C , by 

which he hopes to settle some disputed points 
— particularly that long controversy between 
them as to priority of foundation. The ardour 
with which he engages in these liberal pur- 
suits, I am afraid, has not met with all the 
encouragement it deserved, either here, or at 

C . Your caputs, and heads of colleges, 

care less than anybody else about these ques- 
tions. — Contented to suck the milky fountains 
of their Alma Maters, without inquiring into 
the venerable gentlewomen's years, they rather 
hold such curiosities to be impertinent — un- 
reverend. They have their good glebe lands 
in manu, and care not much to rake into the 
title deeds. I gather at least so much from 
other sources, for D. is not a man to complain. 

D. started like an unbroke heifer, when I 
interrupted him. A priori it was not very 
probable that we should have met in Oriel. 
But D. would have done the same, had I 
accosted him on the sudden in his own walks 
in Clifford's inn, or in the Temple. In addition 
to a provoking short-sightedness (the effect of 
late studies and watchings at the midnight oil) 
D. is the most absent of men. He made a call 
the other morning at our friend M.'s in Bed- 
ford-square ; and, finding nobody at home, 



was ushered into the hall, where, asking for 
pen and ink, with great exactitude of purpose 
he enters me his name in the book — which 
ordinarily lies about in such places, to record 
the failures of the untimely or unfortunate 
visitor — and takes his leave with many 
ceremonies, and professions of regret. Some 
two or three hours after, his walking destinies 
returned him into the same neighbourhood again* 
and again the quiet image of the fire-side circle 
at M.'s — Mrs. M. presiding at it like a Queen 
Lar, with pretty A. S. at her side — striking 
irresistibly on his fancy, he makes another call 
(forgetting that they were " certainly not to 
return from the country before that day week"), 
and disappointed a second time, inquires for 
pen and paper as before : again the book is 
brought, and in the line just above that in 
which he is about to print his second name 
(his re-script) — his first name (scarce dry) 
looks out upon him like another Sosia, or as 
if a man should suddenly encounter his own 
duplicate ! — The effect may be conceived. D. 
made many a good resolution against any such 
lapses in future. I hope he will not keep them 
too rigorously. 

For with G.D. — to be absent from the body, 
is sometimes (not to speak it profanely) to be 
present with the Lord. At the very time 
when, personally encountering thee, he passes 

on with no recognition or, being stopped, 

starts like a thing surprised — at that moment, 
reader, he is on Mount Tabor — or Parnassus — 
or co-sphered with Plato — or, with Harrington, 
framing " immortal commonwealths "—devis- 
ing some plan of amelioration to thy country, 

or thy species peradventure meditating 

some individual kindness or courtesy, to be 
done to thee thyself, the returning conscious- 
ness of which made him to start so guiltily at 
thy obtruded personal preser.ce. 

D. is delightful anywhere, but he is at the 
best in such places as these. He cares not 
much for Bath. lie is out of his element at 
Buxton, at Scarborough, or Harrowgate. The 
Cam and the Isis are to him " better than all 
the waters of Damascus." On the Muses' hill 
he is happy, and good, as one of the Shepherds 
on the Delectable. Mountains ; and when he 
goes about with you to show you the halls and 
colleges, you think you have with you the 
Interpreter at the House Beautiful. 



ELIA. 



CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-THIRTY YEARS AGO. 



In - Mr. Lamb's " Works," published a year 
or two since, I find a magnificent eulogy on 
my old school *, such as it was, or now appears 
to him to have been, between the years 1782 
and 1789. It happens, very oddly, that my 
own standing at Christ's was nearly corre- 
sponding with his ; and, with all gratitude to 
him for his enthusiasm for the cloisters, I 
think he has contrived to bring together 
whatever can be said in praise of them, 
dropping all the other side of the argument 
most ingeniously. 

I remember L. at school ; and can well 
recollect that he had some peculiar advan- 
tages, which I and others of his schoolfellows 
had not. His friends lived in town, and were 
near at hand ; and he had the privilege of going 
to see them, almost as often as he wished, 
through some invidious distinction, which was 
denied to us. The present worthy sub-trea- 
surer to the Inner Temple can explain how 
that happened. He had his tea and hot rolls 
in a morning, while we were battening upon 
our quarter of a penny loaf — our crug — moist- 
ened with attenuated small beer, in wooden 
piggins, smacking of the pitched leathern jack 
it was poured from. Our Monday's milk 
porritch, blue and tasteless, and the peas soup 
of Saturday, coarse and choking, were enriched 
for him with a slice of " extraordinary bread 
and butter," from the hot-loaf of the Temple. 
The Wednesday's mess of millet, somewhat 
less repugnant — (we had three banyan to four 
meat days in the week) — was endeared to his 
palate with a lump of double-refined, and a 
smack of ginger (to make it go down the more 
glibly) or the fragrant cinnamon. In lieu of 
our half-pickled Sundays, or quite fresh boiled 
beef on Thursdays (strong as caro equina), with 
detestable marigolds floating in the pail to 
poison the broth — our scanty mutton scrags on 
Fridays — and rather more savoury, but grudg- 
ing, portions of the same flesh, rotten-roasted 
or rare, on the Tuesdays (the only dish which 
* Recollections of Christ's Hospital. 



excited our appetites, and disappointed our 
stomachs, in almost equal proportion) — he had 
his hot plate of roast veal, or the more tempt- 
ing griskin (exotics unknown to our palates), 
cooked in the paternal kitchen (a great thing), 
and brought him daily by his maid or aunt ! 
I remember the good old relative (in whom 
love forbade pride) squatting down upon some 
odd stone in a by-nook of the cloisters, dis- 
closing the viands (of higher regale than those 
cates which the ravens ministered to the 
Tishbite) ; and the contending passions of L. 
at the unfolding. There was love for the 
bringer ; shame for the thing brought, and the 
manner of its bringing ; sympathy for those 
who were too many to share in it ; and, at 
top of all, hunger (eldest, strongest of the 
passions !) predominant, breaking down the 
stony fences of shame, and awkwardness, and 
a troubling over-consciousness. 

I was a poor friendless boy. My parents, 
and those who should care for me, were far 
away. Those few acquaintances of theirs, 
which they could reckon upon being kind to 
me in the great city, after a little forced notice, 
which they had the grace to take of me on my 
first arrival in town, soon grew tired of my 
holiday visits. They seemed to them to recur 
too often, though I thought them few enough ; 
and, one after another, they all failed me, and 
I felt myself alone among six hundred play- 
mates. 

O the cruelty of separating a poor lad from 
his early homestead ! The yearnings which I 
used to have towards it in those unfledged 
years ! How, in my dreams, would my native 
town (far in the west) come back, with its 
church, and trees, and faces ! How I would 
wake weeping, and in the anguish of my heart 
exclaim upon sweet Calne in Wiltshire ! 

To this late hour of my life, I trace impres- 
sions left by the recollection of those friendless 
holidays. The long warm days of summer 
never return but they bring with them a gloom 
from the haunting memory of those whole-day- 



CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-THIRTY YEARS AGO. 



leaves, when, by some strange arrangement, we 
were turned out, for the live-long day, upon 
our own hands, whether we had friends to go 
to, or none. I remember those bathing-excur- 
sions to the New-River, which L. recalls with 
such relish, better, I think, than he can— for 
he was a home-seeking lad, and did not much 
care for such water-pastimes : — How merrily 
we would sally forth into the fields ; and strip 
under the first warmth of the sun ; and wanton 
like young dace in the streams ; getting us 
appetites for noon, which those of us that were 
pennyless (our scanty morning crust long since 
exhausted) had not the means of allaying — 
while the cattle, and the birds, and the fishes, 
were at feed about us and we had nothing to 
satisfy our cravings — the very beauty of the 
day, and the exercise of the pastime, and the 
sense of liberty, setting a keener edge upon 
them ! — How faint and languid, finally, we 
would return, towards night-fall, to our desired 
morsel, half-rejoicing, half-reluctant, that the 
hours of our uneasy liberty had expired ! 

It was worse in the days of winter, to go 
prowling about the streets objectless — shiver- 
ing at cold windows of print-shops, to extract a 
little amusement ; or haply, as a last resort in 
the hopes of a little novelty, to pay a fifty- 
times repeated visit (where our individual faces 
should be as well known to the warden as those 
of his own charges) to the Lions in the Tower 
— to whose levee, by courtesy immemorial, we 
had a prescriptive title to admission. 

L.'s governor (so we called the patron who 
presented us to the foundation) lived in a 
manner under his paternal roof. Any com- 
plaint which he had to make was sure of being 
attended to. This was understood at Christ's, 
and was an effectual screen to him against the 
severity of masters, or worse tyranny of the 
monitors. The oppressions of these young 
brutes are heart-sickening to call to recollec- 
tion. I have been called out of my bed, and 
waked for the purpose, in the coldest winter 
nights— and this not once, but night after night 
—in my shirt, to receive the discipline of a 
leathern thong, with eleven other sufferers, 
because it pleased my callow overseer, when 
there has been any talking heard after we 
were gone to bed, to make the six last beds in 
the dormitory, where the youngest children of 
us slept, answerable for an offence they neither 



dared to commit, nor had the power to hinder. 
The same execrable tyranny drove the younger 
part of us from the fires, when our feet were 
perishing with snow ; and, under the cruelest 
penalties, forbade the indulgence of a drink 
of water, when we lay in sleepless summer 
nights, fevered with the season, and the day's 
sports. 

There was one H , who, I learned, in 

after days, was seen expiating some maturer 
offence in the hulks. (Do I flatter myself in 
fancying that this might be the planter of that 
name, who suffered— at Nevis, I think, or St. 
Kitts, — some few years since ? My friend 
Tobin was the benevolent instrument of 
bringing him to the gallows.) This petty 
Nero actually branded a boy, who had offended 
him, with a red-hot iron ; and nearly starved 
forty of us, with exacting contributions, to the 
one half of our bread, to pamper a young ass, 
which, incredible as it may seem, with the 
connivance of the nurse's daughter (a young 
flame of his) he had contrived to smuggle in, 
and keep upon the leads of the ward, as they 
called our dormitories. .This game went on 
for better than a week, till the foolish beast, 
not able to fare well but he must cry roast 
meat — happier than Caligula's minion, could 
he have kept his own counsel — but, foolisher, 
alas ! than any of his species in the fables — 
waxing fat, and kicking, in the fulness of bread, 
one unlucky minute would needs proclaim his 
good fortune to the world below ; and, laying 
out his simple throat, blew such a ram's-horn 
blast, as (toppling down the walls of his own 
Jericho) set concealment any longer at defi- 
ance. The client was dismissed, with certain 
attentions, to Smithfield ; but I never under- 
stood that the patron underwent any censure 
on the occasion. This was in the stewardship 
of L.'s admired Perry. 

Under the same facile administration, can L. 
have forgotten the cool impunity with which 
the nurses used to carry away openly, in open 
platters, for their own tables, one out of two of 
every hot joint, which the careful matron had 
been seeing scrupulously weighed out for our 
dinners % These things were daily practised in 
that magnificent apartment, which L. (grown 
connoisseur since, we presume) praises so 
highly for the grand paintings "by Verrio, 
and others," with which it is "hung round 



10 



ELIA. 



and adorned." But the sight of sleek well-fed 
blue-coat boys in pictures was, at that time, I 
believe, little consolatory to him, or us, the 
living ones, who saw the better part of our 
provisions carried away before our faces by 
harpies ; and ourselves reduced (with the 
Trojan in the hall of Dido) 

To feed our mind with idle portraiture. 
L. has recorded the repugnance of the school 
to gags, or the fat of fresh beef boiled ; and 
sets it down to some superstition. But these 
unctuous morsels are never grateful to young 
palates (children are universally fat-haters), 
and in strong, coarse, boiled meats, unsalted, 
are detestable. A gag-eater in our time was 
equivalent to a goule, and held in equal detesta- 
tion. suffered under the imputation : 

'Twas said 

He ate strange flesh. 

He was observed, after dinner, carefully to 
gather up the remnants left at his table (not 
many, nor very choice fragments, you may 
credit me) — and, in an especial manner, these 
disreputable morsels, which he would convey 
away, and secretly stow in the settle that stood 
at his bedside. None saw when he ate them. 
It was rumoured that he privately devoured 
them in the night. He was watched, but no 
traces of such midnight practices were dis- 
coverable. Some reported, that, on leave-days, 
he had been seen to carry out of the bounds a 
large blue check handkerchief, full of something. 
This then must be the accursed thing. Con- 
jecture next was at work to imagine how he 
could dispose of it. Some said he sold it to the 
beggars. This belief generally prevailed. He 
went about moping. None spake to him. No 
one would play with him. He was excommu- 
nicated ; put out of the pale of the school. He 
was too powerful a boy to be beaten, but he 
underwent every mode of that negative punish- 
ment, which is more grievous than many 
stripes. Still he persevered. At length he 
was observed by two of his school-fellows, who 
were determined to get at the secret, and had 
traced him one leave-day for that purpose, to 
enter a large worn-out building, such as there 
exist specimens of in Chancery -lane, which are 
let out to various scales of pauperism, with 
open door and a common staircase. After 
him they silently slunk in, and followed by 
stealth up four nights, and saw him tap at a 



poor wicket, which was opened by an aged 
woman, meanly clad. Suspicion was now 
ripened into certainty. The informers had 
secured their victim. They had him in their 
toils. Accusation was formally preferred, and 
retribution most signal was looked for. Mr. 
Hathaway, the then steward (for this happened 
a little after my time), with that patient sagacity 
which tempered all his conduct, determined to 
investigate the matter, before he proceeded to 
sentence. The result was, that the supposed 
mendicants, the receivers or purchasers of the 
mysterious scraps, turned out to be the parents 

of , an honest couple come to decay — whom 

this seasonable supply had, in all probability, 
saved from mendicancy ; and that this young 
stork, at the expense of his own good name, 
had all this while been only feeding the old 
birds ! — The governors on this occasion, much 
to their honour, voted a present relief to the 

family of , and presented him with a silver 

medal. The lesson which the steward read 
upon bash judgment, on the occasion of 

publicly delivering the medal to , I believe 

would not be lost upon his auditory. — I had 

left school then, but I well remember . 

He was a tall, shambling youth, with a cast in his 
eye, not at all calculated to conciliate hostile pre- 
judices. I have since seen him carrying a baker's 
basket. I think I heard he did not do quite so 
well by himself, as he had done by the old folks. 
I was a hypochondriac lad ; and the sight of 
a boy in fetters, upon the day of my first putting 
on the blue clothes, was not exactly fitted to 
assuage the natural terrors of initiation. I was 
of tender years, barely turned of seven ; and 
had only read of such things in books, or seen 
them but in dreams. I was told he had run 
away. This was the punishment for the first 
offence. — As a novice I was soon after taken 
to see the dungeons. These were little, square, 
Bedlam cells, where a boy could just lie at his 
length upon straw and a blanket — a mattress, 
I think, was afterwards substituted — with a 
peep of light, let in askance, from a prison- 
orifice at top, barely enough to read by. Here 
the poor boy was locked in by himself all day, 
without sight of any but the porter who brought 
him his bread and water — who might not apeak 
t0 Mm ,— or of the beadle, who came twice a 
week to call him out to receive his periodical 
chastisement, which was almost welcome, 



CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-THIRTY YEARS AGO. 



because it separated him for a brief interval 
from solitude : — and here he was shut up by 
himself of nights out of the reach of any sound, 
to suffer whatever horrors the weak nerves, 
and superstition incident to his time of life, 
might subject him to.* This was the penalty for 
the second offence. Wouldst thou like, reader, 
to see what became of him in the next degree ? 
The culprit, who had been a third time an 
offender, and whose expulsion was at this time 
deemed irreversible, was brought forth, as at 
some solemn auto dafe, arrayed in uncouth and 
most appalling attire — all trace of his late 
" watchet weeds " carefully effaced, he was 
exposed in a jacket resembling those which 
London lamplighters formerly delighted in, 
with a cap of the same. The effect of this 
divestiture was such as the ingenious devisers 
of it could have anticipated. "With his pale and 
frighted features, it was as if some of those 
disfigurements in Dante had seized upon him. 
In this disguisement he was brought into the 
hall (L.'s favourite state-room), where awaited 
him the whole number of his school-fellows, 
whose joint lessons and sports he was thence- 
forth to share no more ; the awful presence of 
the steward, to be seen for the last time ; of 
the executioner beadle, clad in his state robe 
for the occasion ; and of two faces more, of 
direr import, because never but in these 
extremities visible. These were governors ; 
two of whom by choice, or charter, were always 
accustomed to officiate at these Ultima Sujypli- 
cia; not to mitigate (so at least we understood 
it), but to enforce the uttermost stripe. Old 
Bamber Guscoigne, and Peter Aubert, I re- 
member, were colleagues on one occasion, when 
the beadle turning rather pale, a glass of brandy 
was ordered to prepare him for the mysteries. 
The scourging was, after the old Roman fashion, 
long and stately. The lictor accompanied the 
criminal quite round the hall. We were gene- 
rally too faint with attending to the previous 
disgusting circumstances, to make accurate 
report with our eyes of the degree of corporal 



* One or two instances of lunacy, or attempted suicide, 
accordingly, at length convinced the governors of the im- 
policy of this part of the sentence, and the midnight 

torture to the spirits was dispensed with This fancy of 

dungeons for children was a sprout of Howard's brain ; 
for which ( saving the reverence due to Holy Paul ) methinks, 
I could willingly spit upon his statue. 



suffering inflicted. Report, of course, gave 
out the back knotty and livid. After scourging, 
he was made over, in his San Benito, to his 
friends, if he had any (but commonly such poor 
runagates were friendless), or to his parish- 
officer, who, to enhance the effect of the scene, 
had his station allotted to him on the outside 
of the hall gate. 

These solemn pageantries were not played 
off so often as to spoil the general mirth of the 
community. We had plenty of exercise and 
recreation after school hours ; and, for myself, 
I must confess, that I was never happier, than 
in them. The Upper and the Lower Grammar 
Schools were held in the same room ; and an 
imaginary line only divided their bounds. 
Their character was as different as that of the 
inhabitants on the two sides of the Pyrenees. 
The Rev. James Boyer was the Upper Master ; 
but the Rev. Matthew Field presided over that 
portion of the apartment of which I had the 
good fortune to be a member. We lived a life 
as careless as birds. We talked and did just 
what we pleased, and nobody molested us. We 
carried an accidence, or a grammar, for form ; 
but, for any trouble it gave us, we might take 
two years in getting through the verbs deponent, 
and another two in forgetting all that we had 
learned about them. There was now and then 
the formality of saying a lesson, but if you had 
not learned it, a brush across the shoulders 
(just enough to disturb a fly) was the sole re- 
monstrance. Field never used the rod ; and in 
truth he wielded the cane with no great good 
will — holding it " like a dancer." It looked in 
his hands rather like an emblem than an instru- 
ment of authority ; and an emblem, too, he was 
ashamed of. He was a good easy man, that did 
not care to ruffle his own peace, nor perhaps set 
any great consideration upon the value of juve- 
nile time. He came among us, now and then, 
but often stayed away whole days from us ; 
and when he came it made no difference 
to us — he had his private room to retire 
to, the short time he staid, to be out 
of the sound of our noise. Our mirth and 
uproar went on. We had classics of our 
own, without being beholden to "insolent 
Greece or haughty Rome," that passed current 
among us — Peter Wilkins — the Adventures of 
the Hon. Captain Robert Boyle — the Fortunate 
Blue Coat Boy— an d the like. Or we cultivated 



12 



ELIA. 



a turn for mechanic and scientific operations ; 
making little sun-dials of paper ; or weaving 
those ingenious parentheses called cat-cradles ; 
or making dry peas to dance upon the end of 
a tin pipe ; or studying the art military over 
that laudable game " French and English," 
and a hundred other such devices to pass away 
the time — mixing the useful with the agreeable 
— as would have made the souls of Rousseau 
and John Locke chuckle to have seen us. 

Matthew Field belonged to that class of 
modest divines who affect to mix in equal pro- 
portion the gentleman, the scholar, and the 
Christian : but, I know not how, the first ingre- 
dient is generally found to be the predominating 
dose in the composition. He was engaged in 
gay parties, or with his courtly bow at some 
episcopal levee, when he should have been 
attending upon us. He had for many years the 
classical charge of a hundred children, during 
the four or five first years of their education ; 
and his very highest form seldom proceeded 
further than two or three of the introductory 
fables of Phsedrus. How things were suffered 
to go on thus, I cannot guess. Boyer, who was 
the proper person to have remedied these 
abuses, always affected, perhaps felt, a delicacy 
in interfering in a province not strictly his own. 
I have not been without my suspicions, that he 
was not altogether displeased at the contrast 
we presented to his end of the school. We 
were a sort of Helots to his young Spartans. 
He would sometimes, with ironic deference, 
send to borrow a rod of the Under Master, and 
then, with Sardonic grin, observe to one of 
his upper boys, " how neat and fresh the twigs 
looked." While his pale students were batter- 
ing their brains over Xenophon and Plato, 
with a silence as deep as that enjoined by the 
Samite, we were enjoying ourselves at our ease 
in our little Goshen. We saw a little into the 
secrets of his discipline, and the prospect did 
but the more reconcile us to our lot. His 
thunders rolled innocuous for us : his storms 
came near, but never touched us ; contrary 
to Gideon's miracle, while all around were 
drenched, our fleece was dry*. His boys 
turned out the better scholars ; we, I suspect, 
have the advantage in temper. His pupils 
cannot speak of him without something of 
terror allaying their gratitude ; the rernem- 
* Cowley. 



brance of Field comes back with all the sooth- 
ing images of indolence, and summer slumbers, 
and work like play, and innocent idleness, and 
Elysian exemptions, and life itself a " playing 
holiday." 

Though sufficiently removed from the juris- I 
diction of Boyer, we were near enough (as I 
have said) to understand a little of his system. 
We occasionally heard sounds of the Ululantes, 
and caught glances of Tartarus. B. was a rabid 
pedant. His English style was crampt to barba- 
rism. His Easter anthems (for his duty obliged 
him to those periodical flights) were grating as 
scrannel pipes*. — He would laugh, ay, and 
heartily, but then it must be at Flaccus's quibble 

about Rex or at the tristis severitas in tultu, or 

insincere in patinas, of Terence — thin jests, which 
at their first broaching could hardly have had vis 
enough to move a Roman muscle. — He had two 
wigs, both pedantic, but of different omen. The 
one serene, smiling, fresh powdered, betokening j 
a mild day. The other, an old, discoloured, 
unkempt, angry caxon, denoting frequent and 
bloody execution. Woe to the school, when 
he made his morning appearance in his passy, or 
passionate wig. No comet expounded surer. — J. B. 
had a heavy hand. I have known him double 
his knotty fist at a poor trembling child (the 
maternal milk hardly dry upon its lips) with a 
" Sirrah, do you presume to set your wits at 
me?" — Nothing was more common than to see 
him make a headlong entry into the school- 
room, from his inner recess, or library, and, 
with turbulent eye, singling out a lad, roar out, 
"Od's my life, sirrah," (his favourite adjura- 
tion) " I have a great mind to whip you," — 
then, with as sudden a retracting imptdse, 
fling back into his lair — and, after a cooling 
lapse of some minutes (during which all but 
the culprit had totally forgotten the context) 
drive headlong out again, piecing out his im- 
perfect sense, as if it had been some Devil's 
Litany, with the expletory yell— "and I will, 

* In this and every thing B. was the antipodes of his 
coadjutor. While the former was digging his brains for 
crude anthems, worth a pig-nut, F. would be recreating 
his gentlemanly fancy in the more flowery walks of the 
Muses. A little dramatic effusion of his, under the name 
of Vertumnus and Pomona, is not yet forgotten by the 
chroniclers of that sort of literature. It was accepted by 
Garrick, but the town did not give it their sanction. — B. 
used to say of it, in a way of half-compliment, half-irony, 
that it was too classical for representation. 



CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-THIRTY YEARS AGO. 



13 



too'' — In his gentler moods, when the rabidus 
furor was assuaged, he had resort to an ingeni- 
ous method, peculiar, for what I have heard, 
to himself, of whipping the boy, and reading 
the Debates, at the same time ; a paragraph, 
and a lash between ; which in those times, 
when parliamentary oratory was most at a 
height and flourishing in these realms, was not 
calculated to impress the patient with a vene- 
ration for the diffuser graces of rhetoric. 

Once, and but once, the uplifted rod was 
known to fall ineffectual from his hand — when 
droll squinting W — having been caught putting 
the inside of the master's desk to a use for 
which the architect had clearly not designed 
it, to justify himself, with great simplicity 
averred, that he did not know that the thing had 
been forewarned. This exquisite Precognition of 
any law antecedent to the oral or declaratory, 
struck so irresistibly upon the fancy of all who 
heard it (the pedagogue himself not excepted) 
— that remission was unavoidable. 

L. has given credit to B.'s great merits as an 
instructor. Coleridge, in his literary life, has 
pronounced a more intelligible and ample 
encomium on them. The author of the Country 
Spectator doubts not to compare him with the 
ablest teachers of antiquity. Perhaps we 
cannot dismiss him better than with the pious 
ejaculation of C. — when he heard that his old 
master was on his death-bed : " Poor J. B.! — 
may all his faults be forgiven ; and may he be 
wafted to bliss by little cherub boys all head 
and wings, with no bottoms to reproach his sub- 
lunary infirmities." 

Under him were many good and sound 
scholars bred. — First Grecian of my time was 
Lancelot Pepys Stevens, kindest of boys and 
men, since Co-grammar-master (and insepa- 
rable companion) with Dr. T e. What an 

edifying spectacle did this brace of friends 
present to those who remembered the anti- 
socialities of their predecessors ! — You never 
met the one by chance in the street without a 
wonder, which was quickly dissipated by the 
almost immediate sub-appearance of the other. 
Generally arm-in-arm, these kindly coadjutors 
lightened for each other the toilsome duties of 
their profession, and when, in advanced age, 
one found it convenient to retire, the other 
was not long in discovering that it suited him 
to lay down the fasces also. Oh, it is pleasant, 



as it is rare, to find the same arm linked in 
yours at forty, Which at thirteen helped it to 
turn over the Cicero De- Amicitia, or some tale 
of Antique Friendship, which the young heart 
even then was burning to anticipate '^Co- 
Grecian with S. was Th — -, who has since 
executed with ability various diplomatic func- 
tions at the Northern courts. Th was a 

tall, dark, saturnine youth, sparing of speech, 
with raven locks.— Thomas Fanshaw Middleton 
followed him (now Bishop of Calcutta), a 
scholar and a gentleman in his teens. He has 
the reputation of an excellent critic ; and is 
author (besides the Country Spectator) of a 
Treatise on the Greek Article, against Sharpe. 
M. is said to bear his mitre high in India, 
where the regni noritas (I dare say) sufficiently 
justifies the bearing. A humility quite as pri- 
mitive as that of Jewel or Llooker might not 
be exactly fitted to impress the minds of those 
Anglo- Asiatic diocesans with a reverence for 
home institutions, and the church which those 
fathers watered. The manners of M. at school, 
though firm, were mild and unassuming. — 
Next to M. (if not senior to him) was Richards, 
author of the Aboriginal Britons, the most 
spirited of the Oxford Prize Poems ; a pale, 

studious Grecian. — Then followed poor S , 

ill-fated M ! of these the Muse is silent. 

Finding some of Edward's race 
Unhappy, pass their annals by. 

Come back into memory, like as thou wert 
in the day-spring of thy fancies, with hope like 
a fiery column before thee— the dark pillar not 
yet turned — Samuel Taylor Coleridge— Logi- 
cian, Metaphysician, Bard ! — How have I seen 
the casual passer through the Cloisters stand 
still, intranced with admiration (while he 
weighed the disproportion between the speech 
and the garb of the young Mirandula), to hear 
thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, 
the mysteries of Jamblichus, or Plotinus (for 
even in those years thou waxedst not pale at such 
philosophic draughts), or reciting Homer in 

his Greek, or Pindar while the walls of 

the old Grey Friars re-echoed to the accents of 
the inspired charity-boy! — Many were the " wit- 
combats," (to dally awhile with the words of 

old Fuller), between him and C. V. Le G , 

" which two I behold like a Spanish great galleon, 
and an English man of war ; Master Coleridge, 
like the former, was built far higher in learning, 



14 



ELIA. 



solid, but slow in his performances. C. V. L., 
with the English man of war, lesser in bulk, 
but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, 
tack about, and take advantage of all winds, 
by tlTfe quickness of his wit and invention." 

Nor shalt thou, their compeer, be quickly 
forgotten, Allen, with the cordial smile, and 
still more cordial laugh, with which thou wert 
wont to make the old Cloisters shake, in thy 
cognition of some poignant jest of theirs ; or 
the anticipation of some more material, and, 
peradventure practical one, of thine own. 
Extinct are those smiles, with that beautiful 
countenance, with which (for thou wert the 
Nireus formosas of the school), in the days of thy 
maturer waggery, thou didst disarm the wrath 
of infuriated town-damsel, who, incensed by 
provoking pinch, turning tigress-like round, 
suddenly converted by thy angel-look, ex- 
changed the half-formed terrible "bl ," 



for a gentler greeting — " bless thy handsome 
facer 

Next follow two, who ought to be now alive, 

and the friends of Elia — the junior Le G 

and F ; who impelled, the former by a 

roving temper, the latter by too quick a sense 
of neglect — ill capable of enduring the slights 
poor Sizars are sometimes subject to in our 
seats of learning — exchanged their Alma Mater 
for the camp ; perishing, one by climate, and 

one on the plains of Salamanca : — Le G , 

sanguine, volatile, s weet-natured ; F dogged, 

faithful, anticipative of insult, warm-hearted, 
with something of the old Roman height about 
him. 

Fine, frank-hearted Fr , the present 

master of Hertford, with Marmaduke T , 

mildest of Missionaries — and both my good 
friends still — close the catalogue of Grecians 
in my time. 



THE TWO RACES OF MEN. 



The human species, according to the best 
theory I can form of it, is composed of two 
distinct races, the men who borrow, and the men who 
lend. To these two original diversities may be 
reduced all those impertinent classifications of 
Gothic and Celtic tribes, white men, black men, 
red men. All the dwellers upon earth, " Par- 
thians, and Medes, and Elamites," flock hither, 
and do naturally fall in with one or other of 
these primary distinctions. The infinite supe- 
riority of the former, which I choose to 
designate as the great race, is discernible in their 
figure, port, and a certain instinctive sovereignty. 
The latter are born degraded. " He shall serve 
his brethren." There is something in the air 
of one of this cast, lean and suspicious ; con- 
trasting with the open, trusting, generous 
manners of the other. 

Observe who have been the greatest bor- 
rowers of all ages — Alcibiades — FalstafF — Sir 
Richard Steele — our late incomparable Brinsley 
— what a family likeness in all four ! 

What a careless, even deportment hath your 
borrower ! what rosy gills ! what a beautiful 
reliance on Providence doth he manifest, — 



taking no more thought than lilies ! What 
contempt for money, — accounting it (yours and 
mine especially) no better than dross ! What 
a liberal confounding of those pedantic distinc- 
tions of meum and tnum ! or rather, what a noble 
simplification of language (beyond Tooke), 
resolving these supposed opposites into one 
clear, intelligible pronoun adjective! — What 
near approaches doth he make to the primitive 
cofomunity, — to the extent of one half of the 
principle at least. 

He is the true taxer who " calleth all the 
world up to be taxed ;" and the distance is as 
vast between him and one of us, as subsisted 
between the Augustan Majesty and the poorest 
obolary Jew that paid it tribute-pittance at : 
Jerusalem ! — His exactions, too, have such a 
cheerful, voluntary air ! So far removed from 
your sour parochial or state-gatherers, — those 
ink-horn varlets, who carry their want of wel- 
come in their faces ! He cometh to you with 
a smile, and troubleth you with no receipt j < 
confining himself to no set season. Every day " 
is his Candlemas, or his Feast of Holy MichaeL| 
He applieth the lene tormentam of a pleasant 



THE TWO RACES OF MEN. 



15 



look' to your purse, — which to that gentle 
warmth expands her silken leaves, as naturally 
as the cloak of the traveller, for which sun and 
wind contended ! He is the true Propontic 
which never ehbeth ! The sea which taketh 
handsomely at each man's hand. In vain the 
victim, whom he delighteth to honour, struggles 
with destiny ; he is in the net. Lend therefore 
cheerfully, man ordained to lend — that thou 
lose not in the end, with thy worldly penny, 
the reversion promised. Combine not prepos- 
terously in thine own person the penalties of 
Lazarus and of Dives ! — but, when thou seest 
the proper authority coming, meet it smilingly, 
as it were half-way. Come, a handsome sacri- 
fice ! See how light he makes of it ! Strain not 
courtesies with a noble enemy. 

Reflections like the foregoing were forced 
upon my mind by the death of my old friend, 
Ralph Bigod, Esq., who parted this life, on 
Wednesday evening ; dying, as he had lived, 
without much trouble. He boasted himself a 
descendant from mighty ancestors of that 
name, who, heretofore held ducal dignities in 
this realm. In his actions and sentiments he 
belied not the stock to which he pretended. 
Early in life he found himself invested with 
ample revenues ; which, with that noble disin- 
terestedness which I have noticed as inherent 
in men of the great race, he took almost imme- 
diate measures entirely to dissipate and bring 
to nothing : for there is something revolting 
in the idea of a king holding a private purse ; 
and the thoughts of Bigod were all regal. Thus 
furnished by the very act of disfurnishment ; 
getting rid of the cumbersome luggage of riches, 
more apt (as one sings) 

To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, 
Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise, 
he set forth, like some Alexander, upon his 
great enterprise, " borrowing and to borrow !" 

In his periegesis, or triumphant progress 
throughout this island, it has been calculated 
that he laid a tythe part of the inhabitants 
under contribution. I reject this estimate as 
greatly exaggerated :— but having had the 
Jhonour of accompanying my friend divers 
times, in his perambulations about this vast 
city, I own I was greatly struck at first with 
the prodigious number of faces we met, who 
claimed a sort of respectful acquaintance with 
us. He was one day so obliging as to explain 



the phenomenon. It seems, these were his 
tributaries ; feeders of his exchequer ; gentle- 
men, his good friends (as he was pleased to 
express himself), to whom he had occasionally 
been beholden for a loan. Their multitudes 
did no way disconcert him. He rather took 
a pride in numbering them ; and, with Comus, 
seemed pleased to be " stocked with so fair a 
herd." 

With such sources, it was a wonder how he 
contrived to keep his treasury always empty. 
He did it by force of an aphorism, which he 
had often in his mouth, that "money kept 
longer than three days stinks." So he made 
use of it while it was fresh. A good part he 
drank away (for he was an excellent toss-pot) ; 
some he gave away, the rest he threw away, 
literally tossing and hurling it violently from 
him — as boys do burrs, or as if it had been in- 
fectious,— into ponds, or ditches, or deep holes, 
inscrutable cavities of the earth ;— or he would 
bury it (where he would never seek it again) 
by a river's side under some bank, which (he 
would facetiously observe) paid no interest — 
but out away from him it must go peremptorily, 
as Hagar's offspring into the wilderness, while 
it was sweet. He never missed it. The streams 
were perennial which fed his fisc. When new 
supplies became necessary, the first person that 
had the felicity to fall in with him, friend or 
stranger, was sure to contribute to the defi- 
ciency. For Bigod had an undeniable way with 
him. He had a cheerful, open exterior, a quick 
jovial eye, a bald forehead, just touched with 
grey (cana fides). He anticipated no excuse, 
and found none. And, waiving for a while my 
theory as to the great race, I would put it to the 
most untheorising reader, who may at times 
have disposable coin in his pocket, whether it 
is not more repugnant to the kindliness of his 
nature to refuse such a one as I am describing, 
than to say no to a poor petitionary rogue (your 
bastard borrower), who, by his mumping vis- 
nomy, tells you, that he expects nothing" better ; 
and, therefore whose preconceived notions and 
expectations you do in reality so much less 
shock in the refusal. 

When I think of this man ; his fiery glow of 
heart ; his swell of feeling ; how magnificent, 
how ideal he was ; how great at the midnight 
hour ; and when I compare with him the com 
panions with whom I have associated since, I 



16 



ELIA. 



grudge the saving of a few idle ducats, and 
think that I am fallen into the society of lenders, 
and little men. 

To one like Elia, whose treasures are rather 
cased in leather covers than closed in iron 
coffers, there is a class of alienators more 
formidable than that which I have touched upon ; 
I mean your borrowers of books — those mutilators 
of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of shelves, 
and creators of odd volumes. There is Com- 
berbatch, matchless in his depredations ! 

That foul gap in the bottom shelf facing 
you, like a great eye-tooth knocked out — (you 
are now with me in my little back study 

in Bloomsbury, reader !) with the huge 

Switzer-like tomes on each side (like the Guild- 
hallgiants,in their reformed posture, guardant 
of nothing) once held the tallest of my folios, 
Opera Bonaventuros, choice and massy divinity, 
to which its two supporters (school divinity 
also, but of a lesser calibre, — Bellarmine, and 
Holy Thomas), showed but as dwarfs, — itself 
an Ascapart ! — that Comberbatch abstracted 
upon the faith of a theory he holds, which is 
more easy, I confess, for me to suffer by than 
to refute, namely, that " the title to property 
in a book (my Bonaventure, for instance), is in 
exact ratio to the claimant's powers of under- 
standing and appreciating the same." Should 
he go on acting upon this theory, which of our 
shelves is safe ? 

The slight vacuum in the left-hand case — 
two shelves from the ceiling — scarcely distin- 
guishable but by the quick eye of a loser — was 
whilom the commodious resting-place of Brown 
onUrn Burial. C. will hardly allege that he knows 
more about that treatise than I do, who intro- 
duced it to him, and was indeed the first (of the 
moderns) to discover its beauties — but so have 
I known a foolish lover to praise his mistress 
in the presence of a rival more qualified to 
carry her off than himself. Just below, Dods- 
ley's dramas want their fourth volume, where 
Vittoria Corombona is ! The remainder nine are 
as distasteful as Priam's refuse sons, when the 
Fates borrowed Hector. Here stood the Anatomy 
of Melancholy, in sober state. Thqre loitered 
the Complete Angler ; quiet as in life* by some 
stream side. In yonder nook, John Buncle, a 
widower-volume, with " eyes closed," mourns 
his ravished mate. 

One justice I must do my friend, that if he 



sometimes, like the sea, sweeps away a treasure, 
at another time, sea-like, he throAvs up as rich 
an equivalent to match it. I have a small 
under-collection of this nature (my friend's 
gatherings in his various calls,) picked up, he 
has forgotten at what odd places, and deposited 
with as little memory at mine. I take in these 
orphans, the twice-deserted. These proselytes 
of the gate are welcome as the true Hebrews. 
There they stand in conjunction ; natives, and 
naturalized. The latter seem as little disposed 
to inquire out their true lineage as I am. — J 
I charge no warehouse-room for these deo- 
dands, nor shall ever put myself to the un- 
gentlemanly trouble of advertising a sale of 
them to pay expenses. 

To lose a volume to C. carries some sense and 
meaning in it. You are sure that he will 
make one hearty meal on your viands, if he 
can give no account of the platter after it. But 
what moved thee, wayward, spiteful K., to be 
so importunate to carry off with thee, in spite 
of tears and adjurations to thee to forbear, the 
Letters of that princely woman, the thrice 
noble Margaret Newcastle ? — knowing at the 
time, and knowing that I knew also, thou most 
assuredly wouldst never turn over one leaf of 
the illustrious folio : — what but the mere spirit 
of contradiction, and childish love of getting 
the better of thy friend ? — Then, worst cut of 
all ! to transport it with thee to the Gallican 
land — 

Unworthy land to harbour such a sweetness, 
A virtue in which all ennobling thoughts dwelt, 
Pure thoughts, kind thoughts, high theughts, her sex's 
wonder ! 

hadst thou not thyplay-books, and books of 

jests and faucies,about thee, to keep thee merry, 
even as thou keepest all companies with thy! 
quips and mirthful tales ? Child of the Green-1 
room, it was unkindly done of thee. Thy wife, 
too, that part-French, better-part English- 
woman ! — that she could fix upon no other 
treatise to bear away, in kindly token of rdfl 
membering us, than the works of Fulke Gre- " 
ville, Lord Brook — of which no Frenchman, 
nor woman of France, Italy, or England, was 
ever by nature constituted to comprehend a 
tittle ! — Was there not Zimmerman on Solitude ? 

Reader, if haply thou art blessed with a 
moderate collection, be shy of showing it ; or 
if thy heart overfloweth to lend them, lend thy 



NEW YEAR'S EVE. 



17 



books ; but let it be to such a one as S. T. C. 
— he will return them ( generally anticipating 
the time appointed) with usury ; enriched with 
annotations tripling their value. I have had 
experience. Many are these precious MSS. of 
his — (in matter oftentimes, and almost in quantity 
not unfrequently, vying with the originals) in 



no very clerkly hand — legible in my Daniel ; 
in old Burton ; in Sir Thomas Browne ; and 
those abstruser cogitations of the Greville, 
now, alas ! wandering in Pagan lands. — I 
counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor thy library, 
against S. T. C. 



NEW YEAR'S EYE. 



Eveiiy man hath two birth-days : two days, 
at least, in every year, which set him upon 
revolving the lapse of time, as it affects his 
mortal duration. The one is that which in an 
especial manner he termeth his. In the gradual 
desuetude of old observances, this custom of 
solemnizing our proper birth-day hath nearly 
passed away, or is left to children, who reflect 
nothing at all about the matter, nor understand 
anything in it beyond cake and orange. But 
the birth of a New Year is of an interest too 
wide to be pretermitted by king or cobbler. 
No one ever regarded the first of January with 
indifference. It is that from which all date 
their time, and count upon what is left. It is 
the nativity of our common Adam. 

Of all sound of all bells — (bells, the music 
nighest bordering upon heaven) — most solemn 
and touching is the peal which rings out the 
Old Year. I never hear it without a gathering- 
up of my mind to a concentration of all the 
images that have been diffused over the past 
twelvemonth ; all I have done or suffered, per- 
formed or neglected— in that regretted time. I 
begin to know its worth, as when a person dies. 
It takes a personal colour ; nor was it a poetical 
flight in a contemporary, when he exclaimed, 
I saw the skirts of the departing Year. 

It is no more than what in sober sadness 
every one of us seems to be conscious of, in 
that awful leave-taking. I am sure I felt it, 
and all felt it with me, last night ; though 
some of my companions affected rather to 
manifest an exhilaration at the birth of the 
coming year, than any very tender regrets for 
the decease of its predecessor. But I am none 
of those who — 

Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest. 



I am naturally, beforehand, shy of novelties ; 
new books, new faces, new years, — from some 
mental twist which makes it difficult in me to 
face the prospective. I have almost ceased to 
hope ; and am sanguine only in the prospects 
of other (former) years. I plunge into fore- 
gone visions and conclusions. I encounter 
pell-mell with past disappointments. I am 
armour-proof against old discouragements. I 
forgive, or overcome in fancy, old adversaries. 
I play over again for love, as the gamesters 
phrase it, games, for which I once paid so dear. 
I would scarce now have any of those untoward 
accidents and events of my life reversed. I 
would no more alter them than the incidents 
of some well-contrived novel. Methinks it is 
better that I should have pined away seven of 
my goldenest years, when I was thrall to the fair 

hair, and fairer eyes, of Alice W n,than 

that so passionate a love-adventure should be 
lost. It was better that our family should 
have missed that legacy, which old Dorrell 
cheated us of, than that I should have at 
this moment two thousand pounds in banco, 
and be without the idea of that specious old 
rogue. 

In a degree beneath manhood, it is my in- 
firmity to look back upon those early days. 
Do I advance a paradox, when I say, that, 
skipping over the intervention of forty years, 
a man may have leave to love himself, without 
the imputation of self-love ? 

If I know aught of myself, no one whose 
mind is introspective— and mine is painfully so 
— can have a less respect for his present 
identity, than I have for the man Elia. I 
know him to be light, and vain, and humour- 
some ; a notorious * * * ; addicted to * * * * : 
c 



13 



ELIA. 



averse from counsel, neither taking it nor 
offering it ; — * * * besides ; a stammering buf- 
foon ; what you will ; lay it on, and spare not : 
I subscribe to it all, and much more than thou 

canst be willing to lay at his door but for 

the child Elia, that " other me," there, in the 
back-ground— I must take leave to cherish the 
remembrance of that young master— with as 
little reference, I protest, to this stupid change- 
ling of five-and-forty, as if it had been a child 
of some other house, and not of my parents. 
I can cry over its patient small-pox at five, and 
rougher medicaments. I can lay its poor 
fevered head upon the sick piLlow at Christ's, 
and wake with it in surprise at the gentle posture 
of maternal tenderness hanging over it, that 
unknown had watched its sleep. I know how 
it shrank from any the least colour of falsehood. 
God help thee, Elia, how art thou changed !— 
Thou art sophisticated. — I know how honest, 
how courageous (for a weakling) it was — how 
religious, how imaginative, how hopeful ! From 
what have I not fallen, if the child I remember 
was indeed myself, — and not some dissembling 
guardian, presenting a false identity, to give 
the rule to my unpractised steps, and regulate 
the tone of my moral being ! 

That I am fond of indulging, beyond a hope 
of sympathy, in such retrospection, may be the 
symptom of some sickly idiosyncrasy. Or is it 
owing to another cause : simply, that being 
without wife or family, I have not learned to 
project myself enough out of myself; and 
having no offspring of my own to dally with, I 
turn back upon memory, and adopt my own 
early idea, as my heir and favourite ? If these 
speculations seem fantastical to thee, reader 
— (a busy man, perchance), if I tread out of the 
way of thy sympathy, and am singularly con- 
ceited only, I retire, impenetrable to ridicule, 
under the phantom cloud of Elia. 

The elders, with whom I was brought up, 
were of a character not likely to let slip the 
sacred observance of any old institution ; and 
the ringing out of the Old Year was kept by 
them with circumstances of peculiar ceremony. 
— In those days the sound of those midnight 
chimes, though it seemed to raise hilarity in all 
around me, never failed to bring a train of 
pensive imagery into my fancy. Yet I then 
scarce conceived what it meant, or thought of 
it as a reckoning that concerned me. Not 



childhood alone, but the young man till thirty, 
never feels practically that he is mortal. He 
knows it indeed, and, if need were, he could 
preach a homily on the fragility of life ; but he 
brings it not home to himself, any more than 
in a hot June we can appropriate to our ima- 
gination the freezing days of December. But 
now, shall I confess a truth? — I feel these 
audits but too powerfully. I begin to count 
the probabilities of my duration, and to grudge 
at the expenditure of moments and shortest 
periods, like misers' farthings. In proportion 
as the years both lessen and shorten, I set more 
count upon their periods, and would fain lay my 
ineffectual finger upon the spoke of the great 
wheel. I am not content to pass away " like a 
weaver's shuttle." Those metaphors solace me 
not, nor sweeten the unpalatable draught of 
mortality. I care not to be carried with the 
tide, that smoothly bears human life to eternity; 
and reluct at the inevitable course of destiny. 
I am in love with this green earth ; the face of 
town and country ; the unspeakable rural soli- 
tudes, and the sweet security of streets. I 
would set up my tabernacle here. I am content 
to stand still at the age to which I am arrived ; 
I, and my friends : to be no younger, no richer, 
no handsomer. I do not want to be weaned 
by age ; or drop, like mellow fruit, as they say, 
into the grave. — Any alteration, on this earth 
of mine, in diet or in lodging, puzzles and dis- 
composes me. My household-gods plant a 
terrible fixed foot, and are not rooted up 
without blood. They do not willingly seek 
Lavinian shores* A new state of being stag- 
gers me. 

Sun, and sky, and breeze, and solitary walks, 
and summer holidays, and the greenness of 
fields, and the delicious juices of meats and 
fishes, andsociety, and the cheerful glass, and 
candle-light, and fire-side conversations, and 
innocent vanities, and jests, and irony itself — 
do these things go out with life ? 

Can a ghost laugh, or shake his gaunt sides, 
when you are pleasant with him ? 

And you, my midnight darlings, my Folios ! 
must I part with the intense delight of having 
you (huge armfuls) in my embraces ? Must 
knowledge come to me, if it come at all, by 
some awkward experiment of intuition, and no 
longer by this familiar process of reading ? 

Shall I enjoy friendships there, wanting the 



NEW YEAR'S EVE. 



19 



smiling indications which point me to them 
here, — the recognisable face — the " sweet as- 
surance of a look " — ? 

In winter this intolerable disinclination to 
dying — to give it its mildest name — does more 
especially haunt and beset me. In a genial 
August noon, beneath a sweltering sky, death 
is almost problematic. At those times do such 
poor snakes as myself enjoy an immortality. 
Then we expand and burgeon. Then we are 
as strong again, as valiant again, as wise again, 
and a great deal taller. The blast that nips 
and shrinks me, puts me in thoughts of death. 
All things allied to the insubstantial, wait upon 
that master feeling ; cold, numbness, dreams, 
perplexity ; moonlight itself, with its shadowy 
and spectral appearances, — that cold ghost of 
the sun, or Phoebus' sickly sister, like that in- 
nutritious one denounced in the Canticles : — 
I am none of her minions — I hold with the 
Persian. 

"Whatsoever thwarts, or puts me out of my 
way, brings death into my mind. All partial 
evils, like humours, run into that capital 
plague-sore. — I have heard some profess an 
indiiFerence to life. Such hail the end of their 
existence as a port of refuge ; and speak of the 
grave as of some soft arms, in which they may 
slumber as on a pillow. Some have wooed 

death ■ — but out upon thee, I say, thou foul, 

ugly phantom ! I detest, abhor, execrate, and 
(with Friar John) give thee to six-score thou- 
sand devils, as in no instance to be excused or 
tolerated, but shunned as an universal viper ; 
to be branded, proscribed, and spoken evil of ! 
In no way can I be brought to digest thee, 
thou thin, melancholy Privation, or more fright- 
ful and confounding Positive ! 

Those antidotes, prescribed against the fear 
of thee, are altogether frigid and insulting, like 
thyself. For what satisfaction hath a man, 
that he shall " lie down with kings and empe- 
rors in death," who in his life-time never 
greatly coveted the society of such bed-fellows? 
— or, forsooth, that " so shall the fairest face 
appear ? " — why, to comfort me, must Alice 
W n be a goblin ? More than all, I con- 
ceive disgust at those impertinent and misbe- 
coming familiarities, inscribed upon your ordi- 
nary tombstones. Every dead man must take 
upon himself to be lecturing me with his odious 
truism, that " Such as he now is I must shortly 



be." Not so shortly, friend, perhaps as thou 
imag-inest. In the mean time I am alive. I 
move about. I am worth twenty of thee. 
Know thy betters ! Thy New Years' days are 
past. I survive, a jolly candidate for 1821. 
Another cup of wine — and while that turn- 
coat bell, that just now mournfully chanted the 
obsequies of 1820 departed, with changed notes 
lustily rings in a successor, let us attune to its 
peal the song made on a like occasion, by 
hearty, cheerful Mr. Cotton. 



THE NEW YEAR. 

Hark the cock crows, and yon bright t,tar 
Tells us the day himself 's not far ; 
And see where, breaking from the night, 
He gilds the western hills with light. 
With him old Janus doth appear, 
Peeping into the future year, 
With such a look as seems to say, 
The prospect is not good that way. 
Thus do we rise ill sights to see, 
And 'gainst ourselves to prophesy ; 
When the prophetic fear of things 
A more tormenting mischief brings, 
More full of soul-tormenting gall 
Than direst mischiefs can befall. 
But stay ! but stay ! methinks my sight, 
Better inform'd by clearer light, 
Discerns sereneness in that brow, 
That all contracted seem'd but now. 
His reversed face may show distaste, 
And frown upon the ills are past ; 
But that which this way looks is clear, 
And smiles upon the New-born Year. 
He looks too from a place so high, 
The Year lies open to his eye ; 
And all the moments open are 
To the exact discoverer. 
Yet more and more he smiles upon 
The happy revolution. 
Why should we then suspect or fear 
The influences of a year, 
So smiles upon us the first morn, 
And speak us good so soon as born ? 
Plague on't ! the last was ill enough, 
This cannot but make better proof ; 
Or, at the worst, as we brushed through 
The last, why so we may this too ; 
And then the next in reason shou'd 
Be superexcellently good : 
For the worst ills (we daily see) 
Have no more perpetuity 
Than the best fortunes that do fall ; 
Which also bring us wherewithal 
c 2 



20 



ELIA. 



Longer their being to support, 

Than those do of the other sort : 

And who has one good year in three, 

And yet repines at destiny, 

Appears ungrateful in the case, 

And merits not the good he has. 

Then let us welcome the New Guest 

With lusty brimmers of the best : 

Mirth always should Good Fortune meet, 

And renders e'en Disaster sweet : 

And though the Princess turn her back, 

Let us but line ourselves with sack, 

We better shall by far hold out, 

Till the next Year she face about. 



How say you, reader — do not these verses 
smack of the rough magnanimity of the old 
English vein ? Do they not fortify like a cor- 
dial ; enlarging the heart, and productive of 
sweet blood, and generous spirits, in the con- 
coction ? Where be those puling fears of 
death, just now expressed or affected ? — Passed 
like a cloud— absorbed in the purging sunlight 
of clear poetry — clean washed away by a wave 
of genuine Helicon, your only Spa for these 
hypochondries — And now another cup of the 
generous ! and a merry New Year, and many 
of them to you all, my masters ! 



MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST. 



"A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the 
rigour of the game." This was the celebrated 
wish of old Sarah Battle (now with God), who, 
next to her devotions, loved a good game of 
whist. She was none of your lukewarm game- 
sters, your half-and-half players, who have no 
objection to take a hand, if you want one to 
make up a rubber ; who affirm that they have 
no pleasure in winning ; that they like to win 
one game and lose another; that they can 
while away an hour very agreeably at a card- 
table, but are indifferent whether they play or 
no ; and will desire an adversary, who has 
slipped a wrong card, to take it up and play 
another. These insufferable triflers are the 
curse of a table. One of these flies will spoil 
a whole pot. Of such it may be said that they 
do not play at cards, but only play at playing 
at tli em. 

Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She 
detested them, as I do, from her heart and soul, 
and would not, save upon a striking emergency, 
willingly seat herself at the same table with 
them. She loved a thorough-paced partner, a 
determined enemy. She took, and gave, no 
concessions. She hated favours. She never 
made a revoke, nor ever passed it over in her 
adversary without exacting the utmost forfei- 
ture. She fought a good fight : cut and thrust. 
She held not her good sword (her cards) " like 
a dancer." She sate bolt upright ; and neither 
showed you her cards, nor desired to see yours. 



All people have their blind side — their super- 
stitions ; and I have heard her declare, under 
the rose, that hearts was her favourite suit. 

I never in my life — and I knew Sarah Battle 
many of the best years of it — saw her take out 
her snuff-box when it was her turn to play ; or 
snuff a candle in the middle of a game ; or 
ring for a servant, till it was fairly over. She 
never introduced, or connived at, miscellaneous 
conversation during its process. As she 
emphatically observed, cards were cards ; and 
if I ever saw unmingled distaste in her fine 
last-century countenance, it was at the airs of 
a young gentleman of a literary turn, who had 
been with difficulty persuaded to take a hand ; 
and who, in his excess of candour, declared, 
that he thought there was no harm in unbend- 
ing the mind now and then, after serious 
studies, in recreations of that kind ! She could 
not bear to have her noble occupation, to which 
she wound up her faculties, considered in that 
light. It was her business, her duty, the thing 
she came into the world to do, — and she did it. 
She unbent her mind afterwards, over a book. 

Pope w T as her favourite author : his Rape of 
the Lock her favourite work. She once did 
me the favour to play over with me (with the 
cards) his celebrated game of Ombre in that 
poem ; and to explain to me how far it agreed 
with, and in what points it would be found to 
differ from, tradrille. Her illustrations were 
apposite andpoignant ; and I had the pleasure of 



MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST. 



21 



sending the substance of them to Mr. Bowles; 
but I suppose they came too late to be inserted 
among his ingenious notes upon that author. 

Quadrille, she has often told me, was her 
first love ; but whist had engaged her maturer 
esteem. The former, she said, was showy and 
specious, and likely to allure young persons. 
The uncertainty and quick shifting of partners 
— a thing which the constancy of whist abhors ; 
— the dazzling supremacy and regal investi- 
ture of Spadille — absurd, as she justly observed, 
in the pure aristocracy of whist, where his 
crown and garter give him no proper power 
above his brother-nobility of the Aces ; — the 
giddy vanity, so taking to the inexperienced, 
of playing alone ; above all, the overpowering 
attractions of a Sans Prendre Vole, — to the 
triumph of which there is certainly nothing 
parallel or approaching, in the contingencies of 
whist ; — all these, she would say, make quadrille 
a game of captivation to the young and enthu- 
siastic. But whist was the solider game : that 
was her word. It was a long meal ; not, like 
quadrille, a feast of snatches. One or two 
rubbers might co-extend in duration with an 
evening. They gave time to form rooted 
friendships, to cultivate steady enmities. She 
despised the chance-started, capricious, and 
ever fluctuating alliances of the other. The 
skirmishes of quadrille, she would say, re- 
minded her of the petty ephemeral embroil- 
ments of the little Italian states, depicted by 
Machiavel : perpetually changing postures and 
connexions ; bitter foes to-day, sugared darlings 
to-morrow ; kissing and scratching in a breath; 
— but the wars of whist were comparable to 
the long, steady, deep-rooted, rational, antipa- 
thies of the great French and English nations. 

A grave simplicity was what she chiefly 
admired in her favourite game. There was 
nothing silly in it, like the nob in cribbage— 
nothing superfluous. No flushes— that most 
irrational of all pleas that a reasonable being 
can set up : — that any one should claim four 
by virtue of holding cards of the same mark 
and colour, without reference to the playing of 
the game, or the individual worth or pretensions 
of the cards themselves ! She held this to be a 
solecism ; as pitiful an ambition at cards as 
alliteration is in authorship. She despised 
superficiality, and looked deeper than the 
colours of things. — Suits were soldiers, she 



would say, and must have an uniformity of array 
to distinguish them : but what should we say 
to a foolish squire, who should claim a merit 
from dressing up his tenantry in red jackets, 
that never were to be marshalled — never to 
take the field ? — She even wished that whist 
were more simple than it is ; and, in my mind, 
would have stripped it of some appendages,which 
in the state of human frailty, may be venially, 
and even commendably, allowed of. She saw 
no reason for the deciding of the trump by the 
turn of the card. Why not one suit always 
trumps ? — Why two colours, when the mark of 
the suits would have sufficiently distinguished 
them without it ? — 

" But the eye, my dear Madam, is agreeably 
refreshed with the variety. Man is not a 
creature of pure reason — he must have his 
senses delightfully appealed to. We see it in 
Roman Catholic countries, where the music 
and the paintings draw in many to worship, 
whom your quaker spirit of unsensualising 
would have kept out. — You yourself have a 
pretty collection of paintings — but confess to me, 
whether, walking in your gallery at Sandham, 
among those clear Vandykes, or among the 
Paul Potters in the ante-room, you ever felt 
your bosom glow with an elegant delight, at all 
comparable to that you have it in your power 
to experience most evenings over a well- 
arranged assortment of the court cards ? — the 
pretty antic habits, like heralds in a procession 
— the gay triumph-assuring scarlets — the con- 
trasting deadly-killing sables — the i hoary ma- 
jesty of spades ' — Pam in all his glory ! — 

" All these might be dispensed with ; and 
with their naked names upon the drab paste- 
board, the game might go on very well, picture- 
less. But the beauty of cards would be extin- 
guished for ever. Stripped of all that is 
imaginative in them, they must degenerate 
into mere gambling. Imagine a dull deal 
board, or drum head, to spread them on, instead 
of that nice verdant carpet (next to nature's), 
fittest arena for those courtly combatants to 
play their gallant jousts and turneys in ! — 
Exchange those delicately- turned ivory markers 
— (work of Chinese artist, unconscious of their 
symbol, — or as profanely slighting their true 
application as the arrantest Ephesian journey- 
man that turned out those little shrines for the 
goddess) — exchange them for little bits of 



22 



ELIA. 



leather (our ancestors' money) or chalk and a 
slate !"— 

The old lady, with a smile, confessed the 
soundness of my logic ; and to her approbation 
of my arguments on her favourite topic that 
evening, I have always fancied myself indebted 
for the legacy of a curious cribbage-board, 
made of the finest Sienna marble, which her 
maternal uncle (old Walter Plumer, whom I 
have elsewhere celebrated) brought with him 
from Florence : — this, and a trifle of five hun- 
dred pounds, came to me at her death. 

The former bequest (which I do not least 
value) I have kept with religious care ; though 
she herself, to confess a truth, was never greatly 
taken with cribbage. It was an essentially 
vulgar game, I have heard her say,— disputing 
with her uncle, who was very partial to it. 
She could never heartily bring her mouth to 
pronounce " Go" — or " That's a go" She called 
it an ungrammatical game. The pegging teased 
her. I once knew her to forfeit a rubber (a 
five-dollar stake,) because she would not take 
advantage of the turn-up knave, which would 
have given it her, but which she must have 
claimed by the disgraceful tenure of declaring 
"two for his heels." There is something ex- 
tremely genteel in this sort of self-denial. 
Sarah Battle was a gentlewoman born. 

Piquet she held the best game at the cards 
for two persons, though she would ridicule the 
pedantry of the terms — such as pique — repique 
— the capot — they savoured (she thought) of 
affectation. But games for two, or even three, 
she never greatly cared for. She loved the 
quadrate, or square. She would argue thus : 
— Cards are warfare : the ends are gain, with 
glory. But cards are war, in disguise of a 
sport : when single adversaries encounter, the 
ends proposed are too palpable. By themselves, 
it is too close a fight ; with spectators, it is not 
much bettered. No looker-on can be in- 
terested, except for a bet, and then it is a 
mere affair of money ; he cares not for your 
luck sympathetically, or for your play. — Three 
are still worse ; a mere naked war of every 
man against every man, as in cribbage, without 
league or alliance ; or a rotation of petty and 
c ontradictory interests, a succession of heart- 
less leagues, and not much more hearty infrac- 
tions of them, as in tradrille. — But in square 
games (she meant whist), all that is possible to be 



attained in card -playing is accomplished. 
There are the incentives of profit with honour, 
common to every species — though the latter 
can be but very imperfectly enjoyed in those 
other games, where the spectator is only feebly 
a participator. But the parties in whist are 
spectators and principals too. They are a 
theatre to themselves, and a looker-on is not 
wanted. He is rather worse than nothing, and 
an impertinence. "Whist abhors neutrality, or 
interests beyond its sphere. You glory in 
some surprising stroke of skill or fortune, not 
because a cold — or even an interested — by- 
stander witnesses it, but because your partner 
sympathises in the contingency. You win for 
two. You triumph for two. Two are exalted. 
Two again are mortified ; which divides their 
disgrace, as the conjunction doubles (by taking 
off the invidiousness) your glories. Two losing 
to two are better reconciled, than one to one in 
that close butchery. The hostile feeling is 
weakened by multiplying the channels. War 
becomes a civil game. — By such reasonings as 
these the old lady was accustomed to defend 
her favourite pastime. 

No inducement could ever prevail upon her 
to play at any game, where chance entered 
into the composition, for nothing. Chance, she 
would argue — and here again, admire the sub- 
tlety of her conclusion ; — chance is nothing, 
but where something else depends upon it. It 
is obvious that cannot he glory. What rational 
cause of exultation could it give to a man to 
turn up size ace a hundred times together by 
himself ? or before spectators, where no stake 
was depending ? — Make a lottery of a hundred 
thousand tickets with but one fortunate num- 
ber — and what possible principle of our nature, 
except stupid wonderment, could it gratify to 
gain that number as many times successively, 
without a prize ? — Therefore she disliked the 
mixture of chance in backgammon, where it 
was not played for money. She called it 
foolish, and those people idiots, who were taken 
with a lucky hit under such circumstances. 
Games of pure skill were as little to her fancy. 
Played for a stake, they were a mere system 
of over-reaching. Played for glory they were, 
a mere setting of one man's wit, — his memory, or 
combination-faculty rather — against another's ; 
like a mock-engagement at a review, bloodless 
and profitless. She could not conceive a game 



A CHAPTER ON EARS. 



23 



wanting the spritely infusion of chance, the 
handsome excuses of good fortune. Two 
people playing at chess in a corner of a room, 
whilst whist was stirring in the centre, would 
inspire her with insufferable horror and ennui. 
Those well-cut similitudes of Castles, and 
Knights, the imagery of the board, she would 
argue, (and I think m this case justly,) were 
entirely misplaced and senseless. Those hard 
head-contests can in no instance ally with the 
fancy. They reject form and colour. A pencil 
and dry slate (she used to say) were the proper 
arena for such combatants. 

To those puny objectors against cards, as 
nurturing the bad passions, she would retort, 
that man is a gaming animal. He must be 
always trying to get the better in something or 
other : — that this passion can scarcely be 
more safely expended than upon a game at 
cards : that cards are a temporary illusion ; 
in truth, a mere drama ; for we do but play at 
being mightily concerned, where a few idle 
shillings are at stake, yet, during the illusion, 
we are as mightily concerned as those whose 
stake is crowns and kingdoms. They are a 
sort of dream-fighting ; much ado ; great 
battling, and little bloodshed ; mighty means 
for disproportioned ends ; quite as diverting, 
and a great deal more innoxious, than many of 
those more serious games of life, which men 
play, without esteeming them to be such. - 

With great deference to the old lady's judg- 
ment on these matters, I think I have experi- 



enced some moments in my life, when playing 
at cards for nothing has even been agreeable. 
When I am in sickness, or not in the best 
spirits, I sometimes call for the cards, and play 
a game at piquet for love with my cousin Bridget 
— Bridget Elia. 

I grant there is something sneaking in it ; 
but with a tooth-ache, or a sprained ankle, — 
when you are subdued and humble, — you are 
glad to put up with an inferior spring of action. 

There is such a thing in nature, I am con- 
vinced, as sick whist. 

I grant it is not the highest style of man — 
I deprecate the manes of Sarah Battle — she 
lives not, alas ! to whom I should apologise. 

At such times, those terms which my old 
friend objected to, come in as something ad- 
missible. — I love to get a tierce or a quatorze, 
though they mean nothing, I am subdued to 
an inferior interest. Those shadows of winning 
amuse me. 

That last game I had with my sweet cousin 
(I capotted her) — (dare I tell thee, how foolish 
I am ?) — I wished it might have lasted for 
ever, though we gained nothing, and lost 
nothing, though it was a mere shade of play : I 
would be content to go on in that idle folly for 
ever. The pipkin should be ever boiling, that 
was to prepare the gentle lenitive to my foot, 
which Bridget was doomed to apply after the 
game was over : and, as I do not much relish 
appliances, there it should ever bubble. Bridget 
and I should be ever playing. 



A CHAPTER ON EARS. 



I have no ear. — 

Mistake me not, reader — nor imagine that I 
am by nature destitute of those exterior twin 
appendages, hanging ornaments, and (architec- 
turally speaking) handsome volutes to the 
human capital. Better my mother had never 
borne me. — I am, I think, rather delicately 
than copiously provided with those conduits ; 
and I feel no disposition to envy the mule for 
his plenty, or the mole for her exactness, in 
those ingenious labyrinthine inlets — those in- 
dispensable side-intelligencers. 



Neither have I incurred, or done any thing 
to incur, with Defoe, that hideous disfigure- 
ment, which constrained him to draw upon 
assurance — to feel " quite unabashed," and at 
ease upon that article. I was never, I thank 
my stars, in the pillory ; nor, if I read them 
aright, is it within the compass of my destiny, 
that I ever should be. 

When therefore I say that I have no ear, 
you will understand me to mean— /or music. 
To say that this heart never melted at the 
concord of sweet sounds, would be a foul 



24 



ELIA. 



self-libel. " Water parted from the sea" never fails 
to move it strangely. So does " In infancy." 
But they were used to be sung at her harpsi- 
chord (the old-fashioned instrument in vogue in 
those days) by a gentlewoman — the gentlest, 
sure, that ever merited the appellation — the 
sweetest — why should I hesitate to name Mrs. 

S , once the blooming Fanny Weatheral of 

the Temple— who had power to thrill the soul 
of Elia, small imp as he was, even in his long 
coats ; and to make him glow, tremble, and 
blush with a passion, that not faintly indicated 
the day-spring of that absorbing sentiment 
which was afterwards destined to overwhelm 
and subdue his nature quite for Alice W n. 

I even think that sentimentally I am disposed 
to harmony. But organically I am incapable of 
a tune. I have been practising " God save the 
King" all my life ; whistling and humming of it 
over to myself in solitary corners ; and am not 
yet arrived, they tell me, within many quavers 
of it. Yet hath the loyalty of Elia never been 
impeached. 

I am not without suspicion, that I have an 
undeveloped faculty of music within me. For 
thrumming, in my wild way, on my friend A.'s 
piano, the other morning, while he was engaged 
in an adjoining parlour, — on his return he was 
pleased to say, " he thought it could not be the 
maid 1 " On his first surprise at hearing the 
keys touched in somewhat an airy and master- 
ful way, not dreaming of me, his suspicions 
had lighted on Jenny. But a grace, snatched 
from a superior refinement, soon convinced him 
that some being — technically perhaps deficient, 
but higher informed from a principle common 
to all the fine arts — had swayed the keys to a 
mood which Jenny, with all her (less cultivated) 
enthusiasm, could never have elicited from 
them. I mention this as a proof of my friend's 
penetration, and not with any view of dispa- 
raging Jenny. 

Scientifically I could never be made to un- 
derstand (yet have I taken some pains) what a 
note in music is ; or how one note should differ 
from another. Much less in voices can I dis- 
tinguish a soprano from a tenor. Only some- 
times the thorough-bass I contrive to guess at, 
from its being supereminently harsh and dis- 
agreeable. I tremble, however, for my misap- 
plication of the simplest terms of that which I 
disclaim. While I profess my ignorance, I 



scarce know what to say I am ignorant of. I 
hate, perhaps, by misnomers. Sostenuto and 
adagio stand in the like relation of obscurity to 
me ; and Sol, Fa, Mi, Be, is as conjuring as 
Baralipton. 

It is hard to stand alone in an age like this, 
— (constituted to the quick and critical percep- 
tion of all harmonious combinations, I verily 
believe, beyond all preceding ages, since 
Jubal stumbled upon the gamut,) to remain, as 
it were, singly unimpressible to the magic in- 
fluences of an art, which is said to have such 
an especial stroke at soothing, elevating, and 
refining the passions. — Yet, rather than break 
the candid current of my confessions, I must 
avow to you, that I have received a great deal 
more pain than pleasure from this so cried-up 
faculty. 

I am constitutionally susceptible of noises. 
A carpenter's hammer, in a warm summer 
noon, will fret me into more than midsummer 
madness. But those unconnected, unset sounds 
are nothing to the measured malice of music. 
The ear is passive to those single strokes ; 
willingly enduring stripes while it hath no task 
to con. To music it cannot be passive. It 
will strive — mine at least will — 'spite of its 
inaptitude, to thrid the maze ; like an unskilled 
eye painfully poring upon hieroglyphics. I 
have sat through an Italian Opera, till, for 
sheer pain, and inexplicable anguish, I have 
rushed out into the noisiest places of the 
crowded streets, to solace myself with sounds, 
which I was not obliged to follow, and get rid 
of the distracting torment of endless, fruitless, 
barren attention ! I take refuge in the unpre- 
tending assemblage of honest common-life 
sounds ; — and the purgatory of the Enraged 
Musician becomes my paradise. 

I have sat at an Oratorio (that profanation of 
the purposes of the cheerful playhouse) watch- 
ing the faces of the auditory in the pit (what a 
contrast to Hogarth's Laughing Audience !) 
immoveable, or affecting some faint emotion 
—till (as some have said, that our occupations 
in the next world will be but a shadow of what 
delighted us in this) I have imagined myself 
in some cold Theatre in Hades, where some of 
the forms of the earthly one should be kept up, 
with none of the enjoyment ; or like that 

Party in a parlour 

All silent, and all damned. 



A CHAPTER ON EARS. 



26 



Above all, those insufferable concertos, and 
pieces of music, as they are called, do plague 
and embitter my apprehension. — Words are 
something ; but to be exposed to an endless 
battery of mere sounds ; to be long a dying, 
to lie stretched upon a rack of roses ; to keep 
up languor by uninterrupted effort ; to pile 
honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to 
an interminable tedious sweetness ; to fill up 
sound with feeling, and strain ideas to keep 
pace with it ; to gaze on empty frames, and be 
forced to make the pictures for yourself ; to 
read a book, all stops, and be obliged to supply 
the verbal matter ; to invent extempore tra- 
gedies to answer to the vague gestures of an 
inexplicable rambling mime — these are faint 
shadows of what I have undergone from a 
series of the ablest-executed pieces of this 
empty instrumental music. 

I deny not, that in the opening of a concert, I 
have experienced something vastly lulling and 
agreeable : — afterwards followeth the languor 
and the oppression. — Like that disappointing 
book in Patmos ; or, like the comings on of 
melancholy, described by Burton, doth music 
make her first insinuating approaches : — " Most 
pleasant it is to such as are melancholy given 
to walk alone in some solitary grove, betwixt 
wood and water, by some brook side, and to 
meditate upon some delightsome and pleasant 
subject, which shall affect him most, amabilis 
insania, and mentis gratissimus error. A most 
incomparable delight to build castles in the 
air, to go smiling to themselves, acting an infi- 
nite variety of parts, which they suppose, and 
strongly imagine, they act, or that they see 
done.— So delightsome these toys at first, they 
could spend whole days and nights without 
sleep, even whole years in such contemplations, 
and fantastical meditations, which are like so 
many dreams, and will hardly be drawn from 
them — winding and unwinding themselves as 
so many clocks, and still pleasing their 
humours, until at the last the scene turns 
upon a sudden, and they being now habitated 
to such meditations and solitary places, can 
endure no company, can think of nothing but 
harsh and distasteful subjects. Fear, sorrow, 
suspicion, subrusticus pudor, discontent, cares, 
and weariness of life, surprise them on a sudden 
and they can think of nothing else ; continually 
suspecting, no sooner are their eyes open, but 



this infernal plague of melancholy seizeth on 
them, and terrifies their souls, representing 
some dismal object to their minds ; which now, 
by no means, no labour, no persuasions, they can 
avoid, they cannot be rid of, they cannot 
resist." 

Something like this "scene turning" I 
have experienced at the evening parties, at the 

house of my good Catholic friend Nov ; 

who, by the aid of a capital organ, himself the 
most finished of players, converts his drawing- 
room into a chapel, his week days into Sundays, 
and these latter into minor heavens.* 

When my friend commences upon one of 
those solemn anthems, which peradventure 
struck upon my heedless ear, rambling in 
the side aisles of the dim Abbey, some five- 
and-thirty years since, waking a new sense, 
and putting a soul of old religion into my 
young apprehension — (whether it be that, in 
which the Psalmist, weary of the persecutions 
of bad men, wisheth to himself dove's wings 
— or that other, which, with a like measure of 
sobriety and pathos, inquireth by what means 
the young man shall best cleanse his mind) — 
a holy calm pervadeth me.— I am for the time 

rapt above earth, 

And possess joys not promised at my birth. 

But when this master of the spell, not con 
tent to have laid a soul prostrate, goes on, in 
his power, to inflict more bliss than lies in her 
capacity to receive, — impatient to overcome 
her "earthly" with his "heavenly," — still 
pouring in, for protracted hours, fresh waves 
and fresh from the sea of sound, or from that 
inexhausted German ocean, above which, in 
triumphant progress, dolphin-seated, ride those 
Arions Haydn and Mozart, with their attendant 
Tritons, Bach, Beethoven, and a countless tribe, 
whom to attempt to reckon up would but 
plunge me again in the deeps, — I stagger under 
the weight of harmony, reeling to and fro at 
my wits' end ; — clouds, as of frankincense, 
oppress me — priests, altars, censers, dazzle 
before me — the genius of his religion hath me 
in her toils — a shadowy triple tiara invests 
the brow of my friend, late so naked, so inge- 
nuous — he is Pope, — and by him sits, like as 
in the anomaly of dreams, a she-Pope too, — tri- 
coroneted like himself ! — I am converted, and 

* I have been there, and still would go ; 
'Tis like a little heaven below — Dr. Watts. 



26 



ELIA. 



yet a Protestant ;— at once malleus hereticorum, 
and myself grand heresiarch : or three here- 
sies centre in my person : — I am Marcion, 
Ebion, and Cerinthus — Gog and Magog — what 
not ? — till the coming in of the friendly supper- 
tray dissipates the figment, and a draught of 



true Lutheran beer (in which chiefly my friend 
shows himself no bigot) at once reconciles me 
to the rationalities of a purer faith ; and re- 
stores to me the genuine unterrifying aspects 
of my pleasant-countenanced host and hostess. 



ALL FOOLS' DAY. 



The compliments of the season to my worthy 
masters, and a merry first of April to us all ! 

Many happy returns of this day to you — and 
you — and you, Sir — nay, never frown, man, nor 
put a long face upon the matter. Do not we 
know one another ? what need of ceremony 
among friends ? we have all a touch of that same 
— you understand me — a speck of the motley. 
Beshrew the man who on such a day as this, 
the general festival, should affect to stand aloof. 
I am none of those sneakers. I am free of the 
corporation, and care not who knows it. He 
that meets me in the forest to-day, shall meet 
with no wise-acre, I can tell him. Stultus sum. 
Translate me that, and take the meaning of it 
to yourself for your pains. What ! man, we 
have four quarters of the globe on our side, at 
the least computation. 

Fill us a cup of that sparkling gooseberry — 

we will drink no wise, melancholy, politic port 

on this day — and let us troll the catch of 

Amiens — due ad me — due ad me — how goes it ? 

Here shall he see 

Gross fools as he. 

Now would I give a trifle to know histori- 
cally and authentically, who was the greatest 
fool that ever lived. I would certainly give 
him in a bumper. Marry, of the present breed, 
I think I could without much difficulty name 
you the party. 

Remove your cap a little further, if you 
please : it hides my bauble. And now each 
man bestride his hobby, and dust away his bells 
to what tune he pleases. I willgive you, for 
my part, 

The crazy old church clock, 

And the bewildered chimes. 

Good master Empedocles, you are welcome. 



It is long sin ce you went a salamander-gathering 
down iEtna. Worse than samphire-picking 
by some odds. 'Tis a mercy your worship did 
not singe your mustachios. 

Ha ! Cleombrotus ! and what salads in faith 
did you light upon at the bottom of the Medi- 
terranean ? You were founder, I take it, of the 
disinterested sect of the Calenturists. 

Gebir, my old free-mason, and prince off 
plasterers at Babel, bring in your trowel, most 
Ancient Grand ! You have claim to a seat 
here at my right hand, as patron of the stam- 
merers. You left your work, if I remember 
Herodotus correctly, at eight hundred million 
toises, or thereabout, above the level of the 
sea. Bless us, what a long bell you must have 
pulled, to call your top workmen to their 
nuncheon on the low grounds of Shinar. Or 
did you send up your garlic and onions by a 
rocket ? I am a rogue if I am not ashamed to 
show you our Monument on Fish-street Hill, 
after your altitudes. Yet we think it some- 
what. 

What, the magnanimousAlexander in tears ? 
—cry, baby, put its finger in its eye, it shall 
have another globe, round as an orange, pretty 
moppet ! 

Mister Adams 'odso, I honour your coat 

— pray do us the favour to read to us that 
sermon, which you lent to Mistress Slipslop — 
the twenty and second in your portmanteau 
there — on Female Incontinence — the same — 
it will come in most irrelevantly and imperti- 
nently seasonable to the time of the day. 

Good Master Raymund Lully, you look wise. 
Pray correct that error. 

Duns, spare your definitions. I must fine 
you a bumper, or a paradox. We will have 



ALL FOOLS' DAY. 



27 



nothing said or done syllogistically this day. 
Remove those logical forms, waiter, that no 
gentleman break the tender shins of his appre- 
hension stumbling across them. 

Master Stephen, you are late. — Ha ! Cokes, 
is it you ? — Aguecheek, my dear knight, let 
me pay my devoir to you. — Master Shallow, 
your worship's poor servant to command. — 
Master Silence, I will use few words with you. 
— Slender, it shall go hard if I edge not you in 
somewhere — You six will engross all the poor 
wit of the company to-day. — I know it, I know it. 

Ha ! honest R , my fine old Librarian 

of Ludgate, time out of mind, art thou here 
again ? Bless thy doublet, it is not over-new, 
threadbare as thy stories : — what dost thou 
flitting about the world at this rate? — Thy 
customers are extinct, defunct, bed-rid, have 
ceased to read long ago.- — Thou goest still 
among them, seeing if, peradventure, thou 
canst hawk a volume or two. — Good Granville 
S , thy last patron, is flown. 

King Pandion, he is dead, 

All thy friends are lapt in lead. — 

Nevertheless, noble R , come in, and 

take your seat here, between Armado and 
Quisada ; for in true courtesy, in gravity, in 
fantastic smiling to thyself, in courteous smiling 
upon others, in the goodly ornature of well-appa- 
relled speech, and the commendation of wise 
sentences, thou art nothing inferior to those 
accomplished Dons of Spain. The spirit of 
chivalry forsake me for ever, when I forget 
thy singing the song of Macheath, which 
declares that he might be happy with either, 
situated between those two ancient spinsters 
— when I forget the inimitable formal love 
which thou didst make, turning now to the 
one, and now to the other, with that Malvolian 
smile— as if Cervantes, not Gay, had written it 
for his hero ; and as if thousands of periods 
must revolve, before the mirror of courtesy 
could have given his invidious preference 
between a pair of so goodly-propertied and 
meritorious-equal damsels. * * * * 



To descend from these altitudes, and not to 
protract our Fool's Banquet beyond its appro- 
priate day, — for I fear the second of April is 
not many hours distant — in sober verity I 
will confess a truth to thee, reader. I love a 
Fool— as naturally, as if I were of kith and 
kin to him. When a child, with child-like 
apprehensions, that dived not below the sur- 
face of the matter, I read those Parables — not 
guessing at the involved wisdom — I had more 
yearnings towards that simple architect, that 
built his house upon the sand, than I enter- 
tained for his more cautious neighbour : I 
grudged at the hard censure pronounced upon 
the quiet soul that kept his talent ; and — 
prizing their simplicity beyond the more pro- 
vident, and, to my apprehension, somewhat 
unfeminine wariness of their competitors — I 
felt a kindliness, that almost amounted to a 
tendre, for those five thoughtless virgins. — I 
have never made an acquaintance since, that 
lasted : or a friendship, that answered ; with 
any that had not some tincture of the absurd 
in their characters. I venerate an honest 
obliquity of understanding. The more laugh- 
able blunders a man shall commit in your 
company, the more tests he giveth you, that 
he will not betray or overreach you. I love 
the safety, which a palpable hallucination 
warrants ; the security, which a word out of 
season ratifies. And take my word for this, 
reader, and say a fool told it you, if you please, 
that he who hath not a dram of folly in his 
mixture, hath pounds of much worse matter 
in his composition. It is observed, that " the 
foolisher the fowl or fish, — woodcocks, — 
dotterels — cods'-heads, &c, the finer the flesh 
thereof," and what are commonly the world's 
received fools, but such whereof the world is 
not worthy ? and what have been some of the 
kindliest patterns of our species, but so many 
darlings of absurdity, minions of the god'dess, 
and her white boys? — Reader, if you wrest 
my words beyond their fair construction, it is 
you, and not I, that are the April Fool. 



28 



ELIA. 



A QUAKERS' MEETING. 



Still-born Silence ! thou that art 

Flood-gate of the deeper heart ! 

Offspring of a heavenly kind ! 

Frost o' the mouth, and thaw o' the mind ! 

Secrecy's confidant, and he 

Who makes religion mystery ! 



Admiration's speaking'st tongue ! 

Leave, thy desert shades among, 

Reverend hermits' hallo vv'd cells, 

Where retired devotion dwells ! 

With thy enthusiasms come, 

Seize our tongues, and strike us dumb ! * 



Reader, would'st thou know what true 
peace and quiet mean ; would'st thou find a 
refuge from the noises and clamours of the 
multitude ; would'st thou enjoy at once solitude 
and society ; would'st thou possess the depth 
of thy own spirit in stillness, without being 
shut out from the consolatory faces of thy 
species ; would'st thou be alone, and yet 
accompanied ; solitary, yet not desolate ; 
singular, yet not without some to keep thee 
in countenance ; a unit in aggregate ; a simple 
in composite : — come with me into a Quakers' 
Meeting. 

Dost thou love silence deep as that " before 
the winds were made ?" go not out into the 
wilderness, descend not into the profundities 
of the earth ; shut not up thy casements ; nor 
pour wax into the little cells of thy ears, with 
little-faith'd self-mistrusting Ulysses. — Retire 
with me into a Quakers' Meeting. 

For a man to refrain even from good words, 
and to hold his peace, it is commendable ; but 
for a multitude, it is great mastery. 

What is the stillness of the desert, com- 
pared with this place ? what the uncommuni- 
cating muteness of fishes ? — here the goddess 
reigns and revels. — " Boreas, and Cesias, and 
Argestes loud," do not with their inter-con- 
founding uproars more augment the brawl — 
nor the waves of the blown Baltic with their 
clubbed sounds — than their opposite (Silence 
her sacred self) is multiplied and rendered 
more intense by numbers, and by sympathy. 
She too hath her deeps, that call unto deeps. 
Negation itself hath a positive more and less ; 



and closed eyes would seem to obscure the 
great obscurity of midnight. 

There are wounds, which an imperfect 
solitude cannot heal. By imperfect I mean that 
which a man enj oy eth by himself. The perfect is 
that which he can sometimes attain in crowds, 
but nowhere so absolutely as in a Quakers' 
Meeting. — Those first hermits did certainly 
understand this principle, when they retired 
into Egyptian solitudes, not siagly, but in 
shoals, to enjoy one another's want of conver- 
sation. The Carthusian is bound to his 
brethren by this agreeing spirit of incom- 
municativeness. In secular occasions, what 
so pleasant as to be reading a book through a 
long winter evening, with a friend sitting by 
—say, a wife — he, or she, too, (if that be pro- 
bable,) reading another, without interruption, 
or oral communication \ — can there be no 
sympathy without the gabble of words ?— 
away with this inhuman, shy, single, shade- 
and-cavern-haunting solitariness. Give meJ 
Master Zimmermann, a sympathetic solitude. 
To pace alone in the cloisters, or side aisles 
of some cathedral, time-stricken ; 

Or under hanging mountains, 

Or by the fall of fountains ; 

is but a vulgar luxury, compared with that 
which those enjoy, who come together for the 
purposes of more complete, abstracted solitude. 
This is the loneliness " to be felt." — The Abbey 
Church of Westminster hath nothing so solemn, 
so spirit-soothing, as the naked walls and 

* From " Poems of all Sorts," by Richard Fleckno, 
1653. 



A QUAKER'S MEETING. 



29 



benches of a Quakers' Meeting. Here are no 
tombs, no inscriptions, 

Sands, ignoble things, 

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings— 
but here is something, which throws Antiquity 
herself into the fore-ground — Silence— eldest 
of things — language of old Night — primitive 
Discourser — to which the insolent decays of 
mouldering grandeur have but arrived by a 
violent, and, as we may say, unnatural pro- 
gression. 

How reverend is the view of these hushed heads, 
Looking tranquillity ! 
Nothing-plotting, nought-caballing, unmis- 
chievous synod ! convocation without intrigue ! 
parliament without debate ! what a lesson dost 
thou read to council, and to consistory ! — if 
my pen treat of you lightly — as haply it will 
wander — yet my spirit hath gravely felt the 
wisdom of your custom, when sitting among 
you in deepest peace, which some out-welling 
tears would rather confirm, than disturb, I 
have reverted to the times of your beginnings, 
and the sowings of the seed by Fox and 
Dewesbury. — I have witnessed that, which 
brought before my eyes your heroic tranquil- 
lity, inflexible to the rude jests and serious 
violences of the insolent soldiery, republican 
or royalist, sent to molest you — for ye sate 
betwixt the fires of two persecutions, the out- 
cast and off-scouring of church and presbytery. 
— I have seen the reeling sea-ruffian, who had 
wandered into your receptacle, with the 
avowed intention of disturbing your quiet, 
from the very spirit of the place receive in 
a moment a new heart, and presently sit 
among ye as a lamb amidst lambs. And I 
remember Penn before his accusers, and Fox 
in the bail-dock, where he was lifted up in 
spirit, as he tells us, and " the Judge and the 
Jury became as dead men under his feet." 

Reader, if you are not acquainted with it, I 
would recommend to you, above all church- 
narratives, to read Sewel's History of the 
Quakers. It is in folio, and is the abstract of 
the Journals of Fox and the primitive Friends. 
It is far more edifying and affecting than any- 
thing you will read of Wesley and his col- 
leagues. Here is nothing to stagger you, 
nothing to make you mistrust, no suspicion 
of alloy, no drop or dreg of the worldly or 
ambitious spirit. You will here read the true 



story of that much-injured, ridiculed man (who 
perhaps hath been a by-word in your mouth), 
— James Naylor : what dreadful sufferings, 
with what patience, he endured, even to the 
boring through of his tongue with red-hot 
irons, without a murmur ; and with what 
strength of mind, when the delusion he had 
fallen into, which they stigmatised for blas- 
phemy, had given way to clearer thoughts, he 
could renounce his error, in a strain of the 
beautifullest humility, yet keep his first 
grounds, and be a Quaker still ! — so different 
from the practice of your common converts 
from enthusiasm, who, when they apostatize, 
apostatize all, and think they can never get far 
enough from the society of their former 
errors, even to the renunciation of some saving 
truths, with which they had been mingled, not 
implicated. 

Get the Writings of John Woolman by 
heart ; and love the early Quakers. 

How far the followers of these good men in 
our days have kept to the primitive spirit, or 
in what proportion they have substituted for- 
mality for it, the Judge of Spirits can alone 
determine. I have seen faces in their assem- 
blies, upon which the dove sate visibly brooding. 
Others again I have watched, when my thoughts 
should have been better engaged, in which I 
could possibly detect nothing but a blank 
inanity. But quiet was in all, and the dis- 
position to unanimity, and the absence of the 
fierce controversial workings. — If the spiritual 
pretensions of the Quakers have abated, at 
least they make few pretences. Hypocrites 
they certainly are not, in their preaching. It 
is seldom indeed that you shall see one get tip 
amongst them to hold forth. Only now and 
then a trembling, female, generally ancient, 
voice is heard — you cannot guess from what 
part of the meeting it proceeds — with a low, 
buzzing, musical sound, laying out a few words 
which " she thought might suit the condition 
of some present," with a quaking diffidence, 
which leaves no possibility of supposing that 
anything of female vanity was mixed up, 
where the tones were so full of tenderness, 
and a restraining modesty. — The men, for what 
I have observed, speak seldomer. 

Once only, and it was some years ago, I 
witnessed a sample of the old Foxian orgasm. 
It was a man of giant stature, who, as Words- 



30 



ELIA. 



worth phrases it, might have danced "from 
head to foot equipt in iron mail." His frame 
was of iron too. But he was malleable. I saw 
him shake all over with the spirit — I dare not 
say of delusion. The strivings of the outer man 
were unutterable — he seemed not to speak, 
but to be spoken from. I saw the strong man 
bowed down, and his knees to fail — his joints 
all seemed loosening — it was a figure to set off 
against Paul Preaching — the words he uttered 
were few, and sound — he was evidently resist- 
ing his will — keeping down his own word- 
wisdom with more mighty effort, than the 
world's orators strain for theirs. "He had 
been a wit in his youth," he told us, with 
expressions of a sober remorse. And it was 
not till long after the impression had begun 
to wear away, that I was enabled, with some- 
thing like a smile, to recal the striking incon- 
gruity of the confession — understanding the 
term in its worldly acceptation — with the 
frame and physiognomy of the person before 
me. His brow would have scared away the 
Levities- — the Jocos Risus-que — faster than 
the Loves fled the face of Dis at Enna. — By 
wit, even in his youth, I will be sworn he 
understood somethin 
an allowable liberty. 



More frequently the Meeting is broken up 
without a word having been spoken. But the 
mind has been fed. You go away with a 
sermon not made with hands. You have been 
in the milder caverns of Trophonius ; or as in 
some den, where that fiercest and savagest of 
all wild creatures, the Tongue, that unruly 
member, has strangely lain tied up and captive. 
You have bathed with stillness. — O when the 
spirit is sore fretted, even tired to sickness of 
the janglings, and nonsense-noises of the world, 
what a balm and a solace it is, to go and seat 
yourself, for a quiet half hour, upon some 
undisputed corner of a bench, among the 
gentle Quakers ! 

Their garb and stillness conjoined, present 
a uniformity, tranquil and herd-like — as in 
the pasture — " forty feeding like one." — 

The very garments of a Quaker seem inca^ 
pable of receiving a soil ; and cleanliness in 
them to be something more than the absence 
of its contrary. Every Quakeress is a lily ; 
and when they come up in bands to their i 
Whitsun-conferences, whitening the easterly 
streets of the metropolis, from all parts of the 
United Kingdom, they show like troops of the 
Shining Ones. 



THE OLD AND THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER. 



My reading has been lamentably desultory 
and immethodical. Odd, out of the way, old 
English plays, and treatises, have supplied me 
with most of my notions, and ways of feeling. 
In every thing that relates to science, I am a 
whole Encyclopaedia behind the rest of the 
world. I should have scarcely cut a figure 
among the franklins, or country gentlemen, in 
king John's days. I know less geography than 
a school-boy of six weeks' standing. To me a 
map of old Ortelius is as authentic as Arrow- 
smith. I do not know whereabout Africa 
merges into Asia ; whether Ethiopia lie in one 
or other of those great divisions ; nor can 
form the remotest conjecture of the position 
of New South Wales, or Van Diemen's Land. 
Yet do I hold a correspondence with a very 



dear friend in the first-named of these two 
Terrse Incognitae. I have no astronomy. I 
do not know where to look for the Bear, or 
Charles's Wain ; the place of any star ; or the 
name of any of them at sight. I guess at 
Venus only by her brightness — and if the sun, 
on some portentous morn were to make his' 
first appearance in the West, I verily believe, 
that, while all the world were gasping in 
apprehension about me, I alone should stand 
unterrified, from sheer incuriosity and want 
of observation. Of history and chronology I 
possess some vague points, such as one cannot 
help picking up in the course of miscellaneous 
study ; but I never deliberately sat down to a 
chronicle, even of my own country. I have 
most dim apprehensions of the four great 



THE OLD AND THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER. 



31 



monarchies ; and sometimes the Assyrian, 
sometimes the Persian, floats as first, in my 
fancy. I make the widest conjectures con- 
cerning Egypt, and her shepherd kings. My 
friend M., with great pains-taking, got me to 
think I understood the first proposition in 
Euclid, but gave me over in despair at the 
second. I am entirely unacquainted with the 
modern languages ; and, like a better man 
than myself, have " small Latin and less 
Greek." I am a stranger to the shapes and 
texture of the commonest trees, herbs, flowers 
— not from the circumstance of my being 
town-born — for I should have brought the 
same inobservant spirit into the world with 
me, had I first seen it "on Devon's leafy 
shores," — and am no less at a loss among 
purely town-objects, tools, engines, mechanic 
processes. — Not that I affect ignorance — but 
my hea*d has not many mansions, nor spacious ; 
and I have been obliged to fill it with such 
cabinet curiosities as it can hold without 
aching. I sometimes wonder, how I have 
passed my probation with so little discredit 
in the world, as I have done, upon so meagre 
a stock. But the fact is, a man may do very 
well witn a very little knowledge, and scarce 
be found out, in mixed company ; everybody 
is so much more ready to produce his own, 
than to call for a display of your acquisitions. 
But in a tete-a-ttte there is no shuffling. The 
truth will out. There is nothing which I 
dread so much, as the being left alone for a 
quarter of an hour with a sensible, well-in- 
formed man, that does not know me. I lately 
got into a dilemma of this sort. — 

In one of my daily jaunts between Bishops- 
gate and Shacklewell, the coach stopped to 
take up a staid-looking gentleman, about the 
wrong side of thirty, who was giving his part- 
ing directions (while the steps were adjusting), 
in a tone of mild authority, to a tall youth, 
who seemed to be neither his clerk, his son, 
nor his servant, but something partaking of all 
three. The youth was dismissed, and we drove 
on. As we were the sole passengers, he 
naturally enough addressed his conversation 
to me ; and we discussed the merits of the fare, 
the civility and punctuality of the driver ; the 
circumstance of an opposition coach havino- 
been lately set up, with the probabilities of its 
success— to all which I was enabled to return 



pretty satisfactory answers, having been drilled 
into this kind of etiquette by some years' daily 
practice of riding to and fro in the stage afore- 
said — when he suddenly alarmed .me by a 
startling question, whether I had seen the 
show of prize cattle that morning in Smith- 
field ? Now as I had not seen it, and do not 
greatly care for such sort of exhibitions, I was 
obliged to return a cold negative. He seemed 
a little mortified, as well as astonished, at my 
declaration, as (it appeared) he was just come 
fresh from the sight, and doubtless had hoped 
to compare notes on the subject. However, he 
assured me that I had lost a fine treat, as it 
far exceeded the show of last year. We were 
now approaching Norton Falgate, when the 
sight of some shop-goods ticketed freshened him 
up into a dissertation upon the cheapness of 
cottons this spring. I was now a little in 
heart, as the nature of my morning avocations 
had brought me into some sort of familiarity 
with the raw material ; and I was surprised to 
find how eloquent I was becoming on the state 
of the India market — when, presently, he 
dashed my incipient vanity to the earth at 
once, by inquiring whether I had ever made 
any calculation as to the value of the rental of 
all the retail shops in London. Had he asked 
of me, what song the Sirens sang, or what 
name Achilles assumed when he hid himself 
among women, I might, with Sir Thomas 
Browne, have hazarded a "wide solution*." 
My companion saw my embarrassment, and, 
the almhouses beyond Shoreditch just coming 
in view, with great good-nature and dexterity 
shifted his conversation to the subject of public 
charities ; which led to the comparative merits 
of provision for the poor in past and present 
times, with observations on the old monastic 
institutions, and charitable orders ; but, finding 
me rather dimly impressed with some glim- 
mering notions from old poetic associations, 
than strongly fortified with any speculations 
reducible to calculation on the subject, he 
gave the matter up ; and, the country beginning 
to open more and more upon us, as we ap- 
proached the turnpike at Kingsland (the des- 
tined termination of his journey), he put a 
home thrust upon me, in the most unfortunate 
position he could have chosen, by advancing 
some queries relative to the North Pole Expe- 
* Urn Burial. 



'32 



ELIA. 



dition. While I was muttering out some- 
thing about the Panorama of those strange 
regions (which I had actually seen), by way of 
parrying the question, the coach stopping 
relieved me from any further apprehensions. 
My companion getting out, left me in the com- 
fortable possession of my ignorance ; and I 
heard him, as he went off, putting questions to 
an outside passenger, who had alighted with 
him, regarding an epidemic disorder, that had 
been rife about Dalston ; and which my friend 
assured him had gone through five or six 
schools in that neighbourhood. The truth now 
flashed upon me, that my companion was a 
schoolmaster ; and that the youth, whom he 
had parted from at our first acquaintance, 
must have been one of the bigger boys, or the 
usher.— He was evidently a kind-hearted man, 
who did not seem so much desirous of provok- 
ing discussion by the questions which he put, 
as of obtaining information at any rate. It 
did not appear that he took any interest, either, 
in such kind of inquiries, for their own sake ; 
but that he was in some way bound to seek 
for knowledge. A greenish-coloured coat, 
which he had on, forbade me to surmise that 
he was a clergyman. The adventure gave 
birth to some reflections on the difference 
between persons of his profession in past and 
present times. 

Rest to the souls of those fine old Peda- 
gogues ; the breed, long since extinct, of the 
Lilys, and the Linacres : who believing that 
all learning was contained in the languages 
which they taught, and despising every other 
acquirement as superficial and useless, came 
to their task as to a sport ! Passing from 
infancy to age, they dreamed away all their 
days as in a grammar-school. Revolving in a 
perpetual cycle of declensions, conjugations, 
syntaxes, and prosodies ; renewing constantly 
the occupations which had charmed their 
studious childhood ; rehearsing continually 
the part of the past ; life must have slipped 
from them at last like one day. They were 
always in their first garden, reaping harvests 
of their golden time, among their Flori and 
their Spici-legia ; in Arcadia still, but kings ; 
the ferule of their sway not much harsher, but 
of like dignity with that mild sceptre attributed 
to king Basileus ; the Greek and Latin, their 
stately Pamela and their Philoclea ; with the 



occasional duncery of some untoward tyro, 
serving for a refreshing interlude of a Mopsa, 
or a clown Damcetas ! 

With what a savour doth the Preface to 
Colet's, or (as it is sometimes called) Paul's 
Accidence, set forth ! "To exhort every man 
to the learning of grammar, that intendeth 
to attain the understanding of the tongues, 
wherein is contained a great treasury of 
wisdom and knowledge, it would seem but 
vain and lost labour ; for so much as it is J 
known, that nothing can surely be ended, 
whose beginning is either feeble or faulty ; and 
no building be perfect whereas the foundation 
and groundwork is ready to fall, and unable to 
uphold the burden of the frame." How well 
doth this stately preamble (comparable to 
those which Milton commendeth as " having 
been the usage to prefix to some solemn law, 
then first promulgated by Solon, or Lycurgus") 
correspond with and illustrate that pious zeal 
for conformity, expressed in a succeeding 
clause, which would fence about grammar- 
rules with the severity of faith articles ! — " aa 
for the diversity of grammars, it is well profit- 
ably taken away by the king majesties wisdom, 
who foreseeing the inconvenience, and favour- 
ably providing the remedie, caused one kind of 
grammar by sundry learned men to be dili- 
gently drawn, and so to be set out, only every- 
where to be taught for the use of learners, and 
for the hurt in changing of schoolmaisters." 
What a gusto in that which follows : " wherein 
it is profitable that he [the pupil] can orderly 
decline his noun, and his verb." His noun ! 

The fine dream is fading away fast ; and the 
least concern of a teacher in the present day 
is to inculcate grammar-rules. 

The modern schoolmaster is expected to 
know a little of everything, because his pupil 
is required not to be entirely ignorant of any- 
thing. He must be superficially, if I may so 
say, omniscient. He is to know something of 
pneumatics ; of chemistry ; of whatever is 
curious, or proper to excite the attention of 
the youthful mind ; an insight into mechanics 
is desirable, with a touch of statistics ; the 
quality of soils, &c. botany, the constitution of 
his country, cum irmltis aliis. You may get a 
notion of some part of his expected duties by I 
consulting the famous Tractate on Education 
addressed to Mr. Hartlib. 



THE OLD AND THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER. 



33 



All these things— these, or the desire of 
them— he is expected to instil, not by set 
lessons from professors, which he may charge 
in the bill, but at school-intervals, as he walks 
the streets, or saunters through green fields 
(those natural instructors), with his pupils. 
The least part of what is expected from him, 
is to be done in school-hours. He must insinu- 
ate knowledge at the mollia tempora fandi. He 
must seize every occasion — the season of the 
year — the time of the day — a passing cloud — a 
rainbow — a waggon of hay — a regiment of 
soldiers going by — to inculcate something use- 
ful. He can receive no pleasure from a casual 
glimpse of Nature, but must catch at it as an 
object of instruction. He must interpret 
beauty into the picturesque. He cannot relish 
a beggar-man, or a gipsy, for thinking of the 
suitable improvement. Nothing comes to him, 
not spoiled by the sophisticating medium of 
moral uses. The Universe — that Great Book, 
as it has been called — is to him indeed, to all 
intents and purposes, a book, out of which he 
is doomed to read tedious homilies to distasting 
school-boys. — Vacations themselves are none 
to him, he is only rather worse off than before ; 
for commonly he has some intrusive upper-boy 
fastened upon him at such times ; some cadet 
of a great family; some neglected lump of 
nobility, or gentry ; that he must drag after 
him to the play, to the Panorama, to Mr. 
Bartley's Orrery, to the Panopticon, or into 
the country, to a friend's house, or his favourite 
watering-place. Wherever he goes, this uneasy 
shadow attends him. A boy is at his board, 
and in his path, and in all his movements. He 
is boy-rid, sick of perpetual boy. 

Boys are capital fellows in their own way, 
among their mates ; but they are unwhole- 
some companions for grown people. The 
restraint is felt no less on the one side, than 
on the other. — Even a child, that "plaything 
for an hour," tires always. The noises of 
children, playing their own fancies — as I now 
hearken to them by fits, sporting on the green 
before my window, while I am engaged in 
these grave speculations at my neat suburban 
retreat at Shacklewell — by distance made 
more sweet — inexpressibly take from the 
labour of my task. It is like writing to music. 
They seem to modulate my periods. They 
ought at least to do so — for in the voice of 



that tender age there is a kind of poetry, far 
unlike the harsh prose-accents of man's con- 
versation. — I should but spoil their sport, and 
diminish my own sympathy for them, by ming- 
ling in their pastime. 

I would not be domesticated all my days 
with a person of very superior capacity to my 
own — not, if I know myself at all, from any 
considerations of jealousy or self-comparison, 
for the occasional communion with such minds 
has constituted the fortune and felicity of my 
life — but the habit of too constant intercourse 
with spirits above you, instead of raising you, 
keeps you down. Too frequent doses of original 
thinking from others, restrain what lesser 
portion of that faculty you may possess of 
your own. You get entangled in another 
man's mind, even as you lose yourself in 
another man's grounds. You are walking with 
a tall varlet, whose strides out-pace yours to 
lassitude. The constant operation of such 
potent agency would reduce me, I am con- 
vinced, to imbecility. You may derive thoughts 
from others ; your way of thinking," the mould 
in which your thoughts are cast, must be your 
own. Intellect may be imparted, but not each 
man's intellectual frame. — 

As little as I should wish to be always thus 
dragged upward, as tittle (or rather still less) 
is it desirable to be stunted downwards by 
your associates. The trumpet does not more 
stun you by its loudness, than a whisper teases 
you by its provoking inaudibility. 

Why are we never quite at our ease in the 
presence of a schoolmaster ? — because we are 
conscious that he is not quite at his ease in 
ours. He is awkward, and out of place, in the 
society of his equals. He comes like Gulliver 
from among his little people, and he cannot fit 
the stature of his understanding to yours. He 
cannot meet you on the square. He wants a 
point given him, like an in different whist-player. 
He is so used to teaching, that he wants to be 
teaching you. One of these professors, upon 
my complaining that these little sketches of 
mine were anything but methodical, and that 
I was unable to make them otherwise, kindly 
offered to instruct me in the method by which 
young gentlemen in his seminary were taught 
to compose English themes. — The jests of a 
schoolmaster are coarse, or thin. They do not 
tell out of school. He is under the restraint of 



34 



ELIA. 



a formal or didactive hypocrisy in company, as 
a clergyman is under a moral one. He can no 
more let his intellect loose in society, than 
the other can his inclinations. — He is forlorn 
among his co-evals ; his juniors cannot be 
his friends. 

" I take blame to myself," said a sensible 
man of this profession, writing to a friend re- 
specting a youth who had quitted his school 
abruptly, " that your nephew was not more 
attached to me. But persons in my situation 
are more to be pitied, than can well be imagined. 
We are surrounded by young, and, conse- 
quently, ardently affectionate hearts, but we 
can never hope to share an atom of their affec- 
tions. The relation of master and scholar 
forbids this. How pleasing this must be to you, how 
I envy your feelings ! my friends will sometimes 
say to me, when they see young men whom I 
have educated, return after some years' absence 
from school, their eyes shining with pleasure, 
while they shake hands with their old master, 
bringing a present of game to me, or a toy to 
my wife, and thanking me in the warmest terms 
for my care of their education. A holiday is 
begged for the boys ; the house is a scene of 
happiness ; I, only, am sad at heart. — This 
fine-spirited and warm-hearted youth, who 
fancies he repays his master with gratitude 
for the care of his boyish years — this young 
man — in the eight long years I watched over 
him with a parent's anxiety, never could repay 
me with one look of genuine feeling. He was 
proud, when I praised ; he was submissive, 
when I reproved him ; but he did never love 
me — and what he now mistakes for gratitude 
and kindness for me, is but the pleasant sen- 
sation, which all persons feel at revisiting the 
scenes of their boyish hopes and fears ; and the 
seeing on equal terms the man they were ac- 
customed to look up to with reverence. My 



wife too," this interesting correspondent goes 
on to say, " my once darling Anna, is the wife 
of a schoolmaster. — When I married her — 
knowing that the wife of a schoolmaster ought 
to be a busy notable creature, and fearing that 
my gentle Anna would ill supply the loss of my 
dear bustling mother, just then dead, who never 
sat still, was in every part of the house in a 
moment, and whom I was obliged sometimes to 
threaten to fasten down in a chair, to save her 
from fatiguing herself to death — I expressed 
my fears that I was bringing her into a way of 
life unsuitable to her ; and she, who loved me 
tenderly, promised for my sake to exert herself 
to perform the duties of her new situation. She 
promised, and she has kept her word. What 
wonders will not woman's love perform ? — 
My house is managed with a propriety and 
decorum unknown in other schools ; my boys 
are well fed, look healthy, and have every 
proper accommodation ; and all this performed 
with a careful economy, that never descends to 
meanness. But I have lost my gentle helpless 
Anna ! — When we sit down to enjoy an hour 
of repose after the fatigue of the day, I am com- 
pelled to listen to what have been her useful 
(and they are really useful) employments 
through the day, and what she proposes for her 
to-morrow's task. Her heart and her features 
are changed by the duties of her situation. To 
the boys, she never appears other than the 
master's wife, and she looks up to me as the boy's 
master ; to whom all show of love and affection 
would be highly improper, and unbecoming 
the dignity of her situation and mine. Yet 
this my gratitude forbids me to hint to her. 
For my sake she submitted to be this altered 
creature, and can I reproach her for it ? " — 
For the communication of this letter, I am in- 
debted to my cousin Bridget. 



IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES. 



35 



IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES. 



I am of a constitution so general, that it consorts and sympathizeth with all things ; I have no antipathy, or 
rather idiosyncrasy in any thing. Those natural repugnancies do not touch me, nor do I behold with prejudice 
the French, Italian, Spaniard, or Dutch.— Religio Medici. 



That the author of the Religio Medici, 
mounted upon the airy stilts of abstraction, 
conversant about notional and conjectural 
essences ; in whose categories of Being the 
possible took the upper hand of the actual ; 
should have overlooked the impertinent indi- 
vidualities of such poor concretions as man- 
kind, is not much to be admired. It is rather 
to be wondered at, that in the genus of animals 
he should have condescended to distinguish 
that species at all. For myself — earth-bound 
and fettered to the scene of my activities, — 

Standing on earth, not rapt above the sky, 
I confess that I do feel the differences of mankind, 
national or individual, to an unhealthy excess. 
I can look with no indifferent eye upon things 
or persons. Whatever is, is to me a matter of 
taste or distaste ; or when once it becomes in- 
different, it begins to be disrelishing. I am, in 
plainer words, a bundle of prejudices — made 
up of likings and dislikings — the veriest thrall 
to sympathies, apathies, antipathies. In a 
certain sense, I hope it may be said of me that 
I am a lover of my species. I can feel for 
all indifferently, but I cannot feel towards all 
equally. The more purely-English word that 
expresses sympathy, will better explain my 
meaning. I can be a friend to a worthy man, 
who upon another account cannot be my mate 
or fellow. I cannot like all people alike.* 



* I would be understood as confining myself to the sub- 
ject of imperfect sympathies. To nations or classes of men 
there can be no direct antipathy. There may be indi- 
viduals born and constellated so opposite to another indi- 
vidual nature, that the same sphere cannot hold them. I 
have met with my moral antipodes, and can believe the 
story of two persons meeting (who never saw one another 
before in their lives) and instantly fighting. 

> We by proof find there should be 

'Twixt man and man such an antipathy, 



I have been trying all my life to like Scotch- 
men, and am obliged to desist from the experi- 
ment in despair. They cannot like me— and 
in truth, I never knew one of that nation who 
attempted to do it. There is something more 
plain and ingenuous in their mode of proceeding. 
We know one another at first sight. There is 
an order of imperfect intellects (under which 
mine must be content to rank) which in its 
constitution is essentially anti-Caledonian. 
The owners of the sort of faculties I allude to, 
have minds rather suggestive than comprehen- 
sive. They have no pretences to much clear- 
ness or precision in their ideas, or in their 
manner of expressing them. Their intellectual 
wardrobe (to confess fairly) has few whole 
pieces in it. They are content with fragments 
and scattered pieces of Truth. She presents 
no full front to them — a feature or side-face at 
the most. Hints and glimpses, germs and crude 
essays at a system, is the utmost they pretend 
to. They beat up a little game peradventure — 
and leave it to knottier heads, more robust 
constitutions, to run it down. The light that 
lights them is not steady and polar, but mutable 
and shifting : waxing, and again waning. Their 

That though he can show no just reason why 
For any former wrong or injury, 
Can neither find a blemish in his fame, 
Nor aught in face or feature justly blame, 
Can challenge or accuse him of no evil, 
Yet notwithstanding hates him as a devil. 

The lines are from oldHeywood's "Hierarchie of Angels," 
and he subjoins a curious story in confirmation, cf a 
Spaniard who attempted to assassinate a King Ferdinand 
of Spain, and being put to the rack could give no other 
reason for the deed but an inveterate antipathy which he 
had taken to the first sight of the King. 

The cause which to that act compell'd him 

Was, he ne'er loved him since he first beheld him. 






ELIA. 



conversation is accordingly. They will throw 
out a random word in or out of season, and be 
content to let it pass for what it is worth. 
They cannot speak always as if they were 
upon their oath — but mustbe understood, speak- 
ing or writing, with some abatement. They 
seldom wait to mature a proposition, but e'en 
bring it to market in the green ear. They 
delight to impart their defective discoveries 
as they arise,without waiting for their full 
development. They are no systematizers, 
and would but err more by attempting it. 
Their minds, as I said before, are suggestive 
merely. The brain of a true Caledonian (if I 
am not mistaken) is constituted upon quite a 
different plan. His Minerva is born in panoply. 
You are never admitted to see his ideas in 
their growth — if, indeed, they do grow, and are 
not rather put together upon principles of 
clock-work. You never catch his mind in an 
undress. He never hints or suggests anything, 
but unlades his stock of ideas in perfect order 
and completeness. He brings his total wealth 
into company, and gravely unpacks it. His 
riches are always about him. He never stoops 
to catch a glittering something in your presence 
to share it with you, before he quite knows 
whether it be true touch or not. You cannot 
cry halves to anything that he finds. He does 
not find, but bring. You never witness his 
first apprehension of a thing. His under- 
standing is always at its meridian — you never 
see the first dawn, the early streaks. — He 
has no falterings of self-suspicion. Surmises, 
guesses, misgivings, half-intuitions, semi-con- 
sciousnesses, partial illuminations, dim instincts, 
embryo conceptions, have no place in his brain, 
or vocabulary. The twilight of dubiety never 
falls upon him. Is he orthodox — he has no 
doubts. Is he an infidel — he has none either. 
Between the affirmative and the negative there 
is no border-land with him. You cannot hover 
with him upon the confines of truth, or wander 
in the maze of a probable argument. He 
always keeps the path. You cannot make 
excursions with him — for he sets you right. 
His taste never fluctuates. His morality never 
abates. He cannot compromise, or understand 
middle actions. There can be but a right and 
a wrong. His conversation is as a book. His 
affirmations have the sanctity of an oath. You 
must speak upon the square with him. He 



stops a metaphor like a suspected person in an 
enemy's country. (i A healthy book !" — said 
one of his countrymen to me, who had ventured 
to give that appellation to John Buncle, — " Did 
I catch rightly what you said ? I have heard of 
a man in health, and of a healthy state of body, 
but I do not see how that epithet can be pro- 
perly applied to a book." Above all, you must 
beware of indirect expressions before a Caledo- 
nian. Clap an extinguisher upon your irony, 
if you are unhappily blest with a vein of it. 
Remember you are upon your oath. I have a 
print of a graceful female after Leonardo da 
Vinci, which I was showing off to Mr. ****. 
After he had examined it minutely, I ventured 
to ask him how he liked my beauty (a foolish 
name it goes by among my friends) — when he 
very gravely assured me, that " he had con- 
siderable respect for my character and talents" 
(so he was pleased to say), " but had not given 
himself much thought about the degree of my 
personal pretensions." The misconception 
staggered me, but did not seem much to dis- 
concert him. — Persons of this nation are parti- 
cularly fond of affirming a truth — which nobody 
doubts. They do not so properly affirm, as 
annunciate it. They do indeed appear to have 
such a love of truth (as if, like virtue, it were 
valuable for itself) that all truth becomes 
equally valuable, whether the proposition that 
contains it be new or old, disputed, or such, as 
is impossible to become a subject of disputation. 
I was present not long since at a party of 
North Britons, where a son of Burns was 
expected ; and happened to drop a silly ex- 
pression (in my South British way), that I 
wished it were the father instead of the son — 
when four of them started up at once to inform 
me, that " that was impossible, because he was 
dead." An impracticable wish, it seems, was 
more than they could conceive. Swift has hit 
off this part of their character, namely their 
love of truth, in his biting way, but with an 
illiberality that necessarily confines the passage 
to the margin*. The tediousness of thesd 

* There are some people who think they sufficiently 
acquit themselves, and entertain their company, with 
relating facts of no consequence, not at all out of the road 
of such common incidents as happen every day ; and this 
I have observed more frequently among the Scots than any 
other nation, who are very careful not to omit the minutest 
circumstances of time or place ; which kind of discourse, 



IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES. 



3? 



people is certainly provoking. I wonder if 
they ever tire one another ? — In my early life 
I had a passionate fondness for the poetry of 
Burns. I have sometimes foolishly hoped to 
ingratiate myself with his countrymen by ex- 
pressing it. But I have always found that a 
true Scot resents your admiration of his com- 
patriot, even more than he would your 
contempt of him. The latter he imputes to 
your "imperfect acquaintance with many of 
the words which he uses ;" and the same 
objection makes it a presumption in you to 
suppose that you can admire him. — Thomson 
they seem to have forgotten. Smollett they 
have neither forgotten nor forgiven, for his 
delineation of Rory and his companion, upon 
their first introduction to our metropolis. — 
Speak of Smollett as a great genius, and they 
will retort upon you Hume's History compared 
with his Continuation of it. What if the his- 
torian had continued Humphrey Clinker ? 

I have, in the abstract, no disrespect for 
Jews. They are a piece of stubborn antiquity, 
compared with which Stonehenge is in its 
nonage. They date beyond the pyramids. But 
I should not care to be in habits of familiar 
intercourse with any of that nation. I confess 
that I have not the nerves to enter their 
synagogues. Old prejudices cling about me. 
I cannot shake off the story of Hugh of Lincoln. 
Centuries of injury, contempt, and hate, on the 
one side, — of cloaked revenge, dissimulation, 
and hate, on the other, between our and their 
fathers, must and ought, to affect the blood of 
the children. I cannot believe it can run clear 
and kindly yet ; or that a few fine words, such 
as candour, liberality, the light of a nineteenth 
century, can close up the breaches of so deadly 
a disunion. A Hebrew is nowhere congenial 
to me. He is least distasteful on 'Change — for 
the mercantile spirit levels all distinctions, as 
all are beauties in the dark. I boldly confess 
that I do not relish the approximation of Jew 
and Christian, which has become so fashionable. 
The reciprocal endearments have, to me, 
something hypocritical and unnatural in them. 
I do not like to see the Church and Synagogue 
kissing and congeeing in awkward postures of 



if it were not a little relieved by the uncouth terms and 
phrases, as well as accent and gesture peculiar to that 
country, would he hardly tolerable. — Hints towards an 
Essay on Conversation. 



an affected civility. If they are converted, why 
do they not come over to us altogether ? Why 
keep up a form of separation, when the life of 
it is fled ? If they can sit. with us at table, why 
do they keck at our cookery ? I do not under- 
stand these half convertites. Jews christian- 
izing — Christians juclaizing — puzzle me. I 
like fish or flesh. A moderate Jew is a more 
confounding piece of anomaly than a wet 
Quaker. The spirit of the synagogue is essen- 
tially separative. B would have been more 

in keeping if he had abided by the faith of his 
forefathers. There is a fine scorn in his face. 

which nature meant to be of Christians. 

The Hebrew spirit is strong in him, in spite of 
his proselytism. He cannot conquer the Shib- 
boleth. How it breaks out, when he sings, 
" The Children of Israel passed through the 
Red Sea !" The auditors, for the moment, are 
as Egyptians to him, and he rides over our 
necks in triumph. There is no mistaking 

him. B has a strong expression of sense 

in his countenance, and it is confirmed by his 
singing. The foundation of his vocal excel- 
lence is sense. He sings with understanding, 
as Kemble delivered dialogue. He would sing 
the Commandments, and give an appropriate 
character to each prohibition. His nation, in 
general, have not over-sensible countenances. 
How should they ?— but you seldom see a silly 
expression among them. Gain, and the pur- 
suit of gain, sharpen a man's visage. I never 
heard of an idiot being born among them. — 
Some admire the Jewish female-physiognomy. 
I admire it— but with trembling. Jael had 
those full dark inscrutable eyes. 

In the Negro countenance you will often 
meet with strong traits of benignity. I have 
felt yearnings of tenderness towards some of 
these faces — or rather masks — that have looked 
out kindly upon one in casual encounters in 
the streets and highways. I love what Fuller 
beautifully calls — these "images of God cut 
in ebony." But I should not like to asso- 
ciate with them, to share my meals and my 
good -nights with them — because they are 
black. 

I love Quaker ways, and Quaker worship. 
I venerate the Quaker principles. It does me 
good for the rest of the day when I meet any 
of their people in my path. When I am ruffled 
or disturbed by any occurrence, the sight, or 



33 



ELIA. 



quiet voice of a Quaker, acts upon me as a 
ventilator, lightening the air, and taking off a 
load from the bosom. But I cannot like the 
Quakers (as Desdemona would say) " to live 
with them." I am all over sophisticated — 
with humours, fancies, craving hourly sym- 
pathy. I must have books, pictures, theatres, 
chit-chat, scandal, jokes, ambiguities, and a 
thousand whim whams, which their simpler 
taste can do without. I should starve at their 
primitive banquet. My appetites are too high 
for the salads which (according to Evelyn) Eve 
dressed for the angel, my gusto too excited 
To sit a guest with Daniel at his pulse> 
The indirect answers which Quakers are 
often found to return to a question put to them 
may be explained, I think, without the vulgar 
assumption, that they are more given to evasion 
and equivocating than other people. They 
naturally look to their words more carefully, 
and are more cautious of committing them- 
selves. They have a peculiar character to 
keep up on this head. They stand in a manner 
upon their veracity. A Quaker is by law ex- 
empted from taking an oath. The custom of 
resorting to an oath in extreme cases, sanctified 
as it is by all religious antiquity, is apt (it must 
be confessed) to introduce into the laxer sort 
of minds the notion of two kinds of truth — 
the one applicable to the solemn affairs of jus- 
tice, and the other to the common proceedings 
of daily intercourse. As truth bound upon 
the conscience by an oath can be but truth, so 
in the common affirmations of the shop and 
the market-place a latitude is expected, and 
conceded upon questions wanting this solemn 
covenant. Something less than truth satisfies. 
It is common to hear a person say, " You do 
not expect me to speak as if I were upon my 
oath." Hence a great deal of incorrectness 
and inadvertency, short of falsehood, creeps 
into ordinary conversation ; and a kind of 
secondary or laic-truth is tolerated, where 
clergy-truth — oath-truth, by the nature of the 
circumstances, is not required. A Quaker 
knows none of this distinction. His simple 
affirmation being received, upon the most 
sacred occasions, without any further test, 
stamps a value upon the words which he 
is to use upon the most indifferent topics of 
life. He looks to them, naturally, with more 
severity. You can have of him no more than 



his word. He knows, if he is caught trip- 
ping in a casual expression, he forfeits, for 
himself at least, his claim to the invidious 
exemption. He knows that his syllables are 
weighed — and how far a consciousness of this 
particular watchfulness, exerted against a 
person, has a tendency to produce indirect 
answers, and a diverting of the question by 
honest means, might be illustrated, and the 
practice justified, by a more sacred example 
than is proper to be adduced upon this occasion. 
The admirable presence of mind, which is 
notorious in Quakers upon all contingencies, 
might be traced to this imposed self-watchful- 
ness — if it did not seem rather an humble and 
secular scion of that old stock of religious 
constancy, which never bent or faltered, in the 
Primitive Friends, or gave way to the winds 
of persecution, to the violence of judge or 
accuser, under trials and racking examinations. 
" You will never be the wiser, if I sit here 
answering your questions till midnight," said 
one of those upright Justicers to Penn, who 
had been putting law-cases with a puzzling 
subtlety. " Thereafter as the answers may 
be," retorted the Quaker. The astonishing 
composure of this people is sometimes ludi- 
crously displayed in lighter instances. — I was 
travelling in a stage-coach with three male 
Quakers, buttoned up in the straitest non-con- 
formity of their sect. We stopped to bait at 
Andover, where a meal, partly tea apparatus, 
partly supper, was set before us. My friends 
confined themselves to the tea-table. I in my 
way took supper. "When the landlady brought 
in the bill, the eldest of my companions dis- 
covered that she had charged for both meals. 
This was resisted. Mine hostess was very 
clamorous and positive. Some mild arguments 
were used on the part of the Quakers, for 
which the heated mind of the good lady 
seemed by no means a fit recipient. The 
guard came in with his usual peremptory no- 
tice. The Quakers pulled out their money 
and formally tendered it — so much for tea — I, 
in humble imitation, tendering mine — for the 
supper which I had taken. She would not re- 
lax in her demand. So they all three quietly 
put up their silver, as did myself, and marched 
out of the room, the eldest and gravest going 
first, with myself closing up the rear, who 
thought T could not do better than follow the 



WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT FEARS. 



39 



example of such grave and warrantable per- 
sonages. We got in. The steps went up. 
The coach drove off. The murmurs of mine 
hostess, not very indistinctly or ambiguously 
pronounced, became after a time inaudible — 
and now my conscience, which the whimsical 
scene had for a while suspended, beginning to 
give some twitches, I waited, in the hope that 
some justification would be offered by these 



serious persons for the seeming injustice of 
their conduct. To my great surprise, not a 
syllable was dropped on the subject. They 
sate as mute as at a meeting. At length the 
eldest of them broke silence, by inquiring of 
his next neighbour, u Hast thee heard how 
indigos go at the India House ? " and the 
question operated as a soporific on my moral 
feeling as far as Exeter. 



WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT FEARS. 



We are too hasty when we set down our 
ancestors in the gross for fools, for the mon- 
strous inconsistencies (as they seem to us) 
involved in their creed of witchcraft. In the 
relations of this visible world we find them to 
have been as rational, and shrewd to detect an 
historic anomaly, as ourselves. But when 
once the invisible world was supposed to be 
opened, and the lawless agency of bad spirits 
assumed, what measures of probability, of 
decency, of fitness, or proportion — of that 
which distinguishes the likely from the palpa- 
ble absurd — could they have to guide them in 
the rejection or admission of any particular 
testimony? — That maidens pined away, wasting 
inwardly as their waxen images consumed 
before a fire — that corn was lodged, and cattle 
lamed — that whirlwinds uptore in diabolic 
revelry the oaks of the forest — or that spits 
and kettles only danced a fearful-innocent 
vagary about some rustic's kitchen when no 
wind, was stirring — were all equally probable 
where no law of agency was understood. That 
the prince of the powers of darkness, passing 
by the flower and pomp of the earth, should 
lay preposterous siege to the weak fantasy of 
indigent eld — has neither likelihood nor un- 
likelihood a priori to us, who have no measure 
to guess at his policy, or standard to estimate 
what rate those anile souls may fetch in the 
devil's market. Nor, when the wicked are 
expressly symbolised by a goat, was it to be 
wondered at so much, that he should come 
sometimes in that body, and assert his meta- 
phor. — That the intercourse was opened at all 
between both worlds, was perhaps the mistake 



— but that once assumed, I see no reason for 
disbelieving one attested story of this nature 
more than another on the score of absurdity. 
There is no law to judge of the lawless, or 
canon by which a dream may be criticised. 

I have sometimes thought that I could not 
have existed in the days of received witch- 
craft ; that I could not have slept in a village 
where one of those reputed hags dwelt. Our 
ancestors were bolder or more obtuse. Amidst 
the universal belief that these wretches were 
in league with the author of all evil, holding 
hell tributary to their muttering, no simple 
Justice of the Peace seems to have scrupled 
issuing, or silly Headborough serving, a war- 
rant upon them — as if they should subpoena 
Satan ! — Prospero in his boat, with his books 
and wand about him, suffers himself to be 
conveyed away at the mercy of his enemies to 
an unknown island. He might have raised a 
storm or two, we think, on the passage. His 
acquiescence is in exact analogy to the non- 
resistance of witches to the constituted powers. 
— What stops the Fiend in Spenser from tear- 
ing Guyon to pieces — or who had made it a con- 
dition of his prey, that Guyon must take assay 
of the glorious bait — we have no guess. We 
do not know the laws of that country. 

From my childhood I was extremely inqui- 
sitive about witches and witch-stories. My 
maid, and more legendary aunt, supplied me 
with good store. But I shall mention the 
accident which directed my curiosity originally 
into this channel. In my father's book-closet, 
the History of the Bible by Stackhouse oc- 
cupied a distinguished station. The pictures 



40 



ELIA. 



with which it abounds — one of the ark, in 
particular, and another of Solomon's temple, 
delineated with all the fidelity of ocular ad- 
measurement, as if the artist had been upon 
the spot — attracted my childish attention. 
There was a picture, too, of the Witch raising 
up Samuel, which I wish that I had never seen. 
We shall come to that hereafter. Stackhouse 
is in two huge tomes— and there was a pleasure 
in removing folios of that magnitude, which, 
with infinite straining, was as much as I could 
manage, from the situation which they occupied 
upon an upper shelf. I have not met with 
the work from that time to this, but I remem- 
ber it consisted of Old Testament stories, 
orderly set down, with the objection appended 
to each story, and the solution of the objection 
regularly tacked to that. The objection was a 
summary of whatever difficulties had been 
opposed to the credibility of the history, by 
the shrewdness of ancient or modern infidelity, 
drawn up with an almost complimentary 
excess of candour. The solution was brief, 
modest, and satisfactory. The bane and an- 
tidote were both before you. To doubts so 
put, and so quashed, there seemed to be an 
end for ever. The dragon lay dead, for the 
foot of the veriest babe to trample on. But — 
like as was rather feared than realised from 
that slain monster in Spenser — from the womb 
of those crushed errors young dragonets would 
creep, exceeding the prowess of so tender a 
Saint George as myself to vanquish. The 
habit of expecting objections to every passage, 
set me upon starting more objections, for the 
glory of finding a solution of my own for them. 
I became staggered and perplexed, a sceptic 
in long-coats. The pretty Bible stories which 
I had read, or heard read in church, lost their 
purity and sincerity of impression, and were 
turned into so many historic or chronologic 
theses to be defended against whatever im- 
pugners. I was not to disbelieve them, but — 
the next thing to that — I was to be quite sure 
that some one or other would or had disbelieved 
them. Next to making a child an infidel, is 
the letting him know that there are infidels at 
all. Credulity is the man's weakness, but the 
child's strength. O, how ugly sound scriptural 
doubts from the mouth of a babe and a suck- 
ling ! — I should have lost myself in these 
mazes, and have pined away, I think, with 



such unfit sustenance as these husks afforded, 
but for a fortunate piece of ill-fortune, which 
about this time befel me. Turning over the 
picture of the ark with too much haste, I un- 
happily made a breach in its ingenious fabric — 
driving my inconsiderate fingers right through 
the two larger quadrupeds — the elephant, and 
the camel — that stare (as well they might) out 
of the two last windows next the steerage in 
that unique piece of naval architecture. Stack- 
house was henceforth locked up, and became 
an interdicted treasure. With the book, the 
objections and solutions gradually cleared out of 
my head, and have seldom returned since in 
any force to trouble me. — But there was one 
impression which I had imbibed from Stack- 
house, which no lock or bar could shut out, 
and which was destined to try my childish 
nerves rather more seriously. — That detesta- 
ble picture ! 

I was dreadfully alive to nervous terrors. 
The night-time, solitude, and the dark, were 
my hell. The sufferings I endured in this 
nature would justify the expression. I never 
laid my head on my pillow, I suppose, from 
the fourth to the seventh or eighth year of my 
life — so far as memory serves in things so long 
ago — without an assurance, which realised its 
own prophecy, of seeing some frightful spectre. 
Be old Stackhouse then acquitted in part, if 
I say, that to his picture of the Witch raising 
up Samuel — (0 that old man covered with a 
mantle !) — I owe — not my midnight terrors, 
the hell of my infancy — but the shape and 
manner of their visitation. It was he who 
dressed up for me a hag that nightly sate upon 
my pillow — a sure bedfellow, when my aunt 
or my maid was far from me. All day long, 
while the book was permitted me, I dreamed 
waking over his delineation, and at night (if I 
may use so bold an expression) awoke into 
sleep, and found the vision true. I durst not, 
even in the day-light, once enter the chamber 
where I slept, without my face turned to the 
window, aversely from the bed where my 
witch-ridden pillow was. — Parents do not 
know what they do when they leave tender 
babes alone to go to sleep in the dark. The 
feeling about for a friendly arm — the hoping 
for a familiar voice — when they wake scream- 
ing — and find none to soothe them — what a 
terrible shaking it is to their poor nerves ! 



WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT FEARS. 



41 



The keeping them up till midnight, through can- 
dle-light and the unwholesome hours, as they 
are called, — would, I am satisfied, in a medical 
point of view, prove the better caution. — That 
detestable picture, as I have said, gave the 
fashion to my dreams — if dreams they were — 
for the scene of them was invariably the room 
in which I lay. Had I never met with the pic- 
ture, the fears would have come self-pictured 
in some shape or other — 

Headless bear, black man, or ape — 

but, as it was, my imaginations took that form. 
— It is not book, or picture, or the stories of 
foolish servants, which create these terrors in 
children. They can at most but give them a 
direction. Dear little T. H., who of all chil- 
dren has been brought up with the most scru- 
pulous exclusion of every taint of superstition 
■ — who was never allowed to hear of goblin or 
apparition, or scarcely to be told of bad men, 
or to read or hear of any distressing story — finds 
all this world of fear, from which he has been 
so rigidly excluded ab extra, in his own " thick- 
coming fancies ;" and from his little midnight 
pillow, this nurse-child of optimism will start 
at shapes, unborrowed of tradition, in sweats 
to which the reveries of the cell-damned mur- 
derer are tranquillity. 

Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimaeras dire — 
stories of Celseno and the Harpies — may re- 
produce themselves in the brain of superstition 
—but they were there before. They are 
transcripts, types — the archetypes are in us, 
and eternal. How else should the recital of 
that, which we know in a waking sense to be 
false, come to affect us at all ? — or 

Names, whose sense we see not, 

Fray us with things that be not ? 

Is it that we naturally conceive terror from 
such objects, considered in their capacity of 
being able to inflict upon us bodily injury ? — 
0, least of all ! These terrors are of older 
standing. They date beyond body— or, without 
the body, they would have been the same. 
All the cruel, tormenting, defined devils in 
Dante — tearing, mangling, choking, stifling, 
scorching demons — are they one half so fear- 
ful to the spirit of a man, as the simple idea 
of a spirit unembodied following him — 

Like one that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 



And having once turn'd round, walks on 
And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread*. 

That the kind of fear here treated of is 
purely spiritual — that it is strong in proportion 
as it is objectless upon earth — that it predom- 
inates in the period of sinless infancy — are 
difficulties, the solution of which might afford 
some probable insight into our ante-mundane 
condition, and a peep at least into the shadow- 
land of pre-existence. 

My night-fancies have long ceased to be 
afflictive. I confess an occasional night-mare ; 
but I do not, as in early youth, keep a stud of 
them. Fiendish faces, with the extinguished 
taper, will come and look at me ; but I know 
them for mockeries, even while I cannot elude 
their presence, and I fight and grapple with 
them. For the credit of my imagination, I 
am almost ashamed to say how tame and pro- 
saic my dreams are grown. They are never 
romantic, seldom even rural. They are of 
architecture and of buildings — cities abroad, 
which I have never seen and hardly have hope 
to see. I have traversed, for the seeming 
length of a natural day, Rome, Amsterdam, 
Paris, Lisbon — their churches, palaces, squares, 
market-places, shops, suburbs, ruins, with an 
inexpressible sense of delight — a map like 
distinctness of trace — and a day-light vividness 
of vision, that was all but being awake. — I 
have formerly travelled among the Westmore- 
land fells — my highest Alps, — but they are 
objects too mighty for the grasp of my dream- 
ing recognition ; and I have again and again 
awoke with ineffectual struggles of the inner 
eye, to make out a shape in any way what- 
ever, of Helvellyn. Methought I was in that 
country, but the mountains were gone. The 
poverty of my dreams mortifies me. There is 
Coleridge, at his will can conjure up icy domes, 
and pleasure-houses for Kubla Khan, and 
Abyssinian maids, and songs of Abara, and 
caverns, 

Where Alph, the sacred river, runs, 

to solace his night solitudes — when I cannot 
muster a fiddle. Barry Cornwall has his tri- 
tons and his nereids gamboling before him in 
nocturnal visions, and proclaiming sons born 
to Neptune — when my stretch of imaginative 

* Mr. Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. 



42 



ELIA. 



activity can hardly, in the night season, raise 
up the ghost of a fish- wife. To set my failures 
in somewhat a mortifying light — it was after 
reading the nohle Dream of this poet, that my 
fancy ran strong upon these marine spectra ; 
and the poor plastic power, such as itis, within 
me set to work, to humour my folly in a sort 
of dream that very night. Methought I was 
upon the ocean billows at some sea nuptials, 
riding and mounted high, with the customary 
train sounding their conchs before me, (I my- 
self, you may be sure, the leading god,) and 
jellify we went careering over the main, till 
just where Ino Leucothea should have greeted 
me (I think it was Ino) with a white embrace, 
the billows gradually subsiding, fell from a sea- 
roughness to a sea-calm, and thence to a river 
motion, and that river (as happens in the fami- 
liarization of dreams) was no other than the 



VALENTINE'S DAY. 



Hail to thy returning festival, old Bishop 
Valentine ! Great is thy name in the rubric, 
thou venerable Arch-flamen of Hymen ! Im- 
mortal Go-between ; who and what manner of 
person art thou ? Art thou but a name, typifying 
the restless principle which impelspoor humans j 
to seek perfection in union ? or wert thou 
indeed a mortal prelate, with thy tippet and 
tby rochet, thy apron on, and decent lawn 
sleeves ? Mysterious personage ! like unto 
thee, assuredly, there is no other mitred father 
in the calendar ; not Jerome, nor Ambrose, 
nor Cyril ; nor the consigner of undipt infants 
to eternal torments, Austin, whom all mothers 
hate ; nor he who hated all mothers, Origen ; 
nor Bishop Bull, nor Archbishop Parker, nor 
Whitgift. Thou comest attended with thou- 
sands and ten thousands of litle Loves, and the 
air is 

Brush 'd with the hiss of rustling wings. 

Singing Cupids are thy choristers and thy pre- 
centors; and instead of the crosier, the mystical 
arrow is borne before thee. 

In other words, this is the day on which those 
charming little missives, ycleped Valentines, 
cross and intercross each other at every street | 



and turning. The weary and all for-spent two- 
penny postman sinks beneath a load of delicate 
embarrassments, not his own. It is scarcely credi- 
ble to what an extent this ephemeral courtship 
is carried on in this loving town, to the great en- 
richment of porters, and detriment of knockers 
and bell- wires. In these little visual interpre- 
tations, no emblem is so common as the hearty 
— that little three-cornered exponent of all our 
hopes and fears,— the bestuck and bleeding 
heart ; it is twisted and tortured into more 
allegories and affectations than an opera-hat. 
What authority we have in history or mytho- 
logy for placing the head-quarters and metro- 
polis of God Cupid in this anatomical seat 
rather than in any other, is not very clear ; 
but we have got it, and it will serve as well as 
any other. Else we might easily imagine, 
upon some other system which might have pre- 
vailed for anything which our pathology knows 
to the contrary, a lover addressing his mistress, 
inperfect simplicity of feeling,"Madam,my liver 
and fortune ai'e entirely at your disposal ; I 
or putting a delicate question, a Amanda, have 
you a midriff to bestow ? " But custom has 
settled these things, and awarded the seat of 



gentle Thames, which landed me in the wafture 
of a placid wave or two, alone, safe and in- 
glorious, somewhere at the foot of Lambeth 
palace. 

The degree of the soul's creativeness in 
sleep might furnish no whimsical criterion of 
the quantum of poetical faculty resident in 
the same soul waking. An old gentleman, a 
friend of mine, and a humorist, used to carry 
this notion so far, that when he saw any stripling 
of his acquaintance ambitious of becoming a 
poet, his first question would be, — "Young 
man, what sort of dreams have you ? " I have 
so much faith in my old friend's theory, that 
when I feel that idle vein returning upon me, 
I presently subside into my proper element 
of prose, remembering those eluding nereids, 
and that inauspicious inland landing. 



VALENTINE'S DAY. 



sentiment to the aforesaid triangle, while its 
less fortunate neighbours wait at animal and 
anatomical distance. 

Not many sounds in life, and I include all 
urban and all rural sounds, exceed in interest 
a knock at the door. It " gives a very echo to the 
throne where Hope is seated." But its issues 
seldom answer to this oracle within. It is so 
seldom that just the person we want to see 
comes. But of all the clamorous visitations 
the welcomest in expectation is the sound 
that ushers in, or seems to usher in, a Valen- 
tine. As the raven himself was hoarse that 
announced the fatal entrance of Duncan, so 
the knock of the postman on this day is light, 
airy, confident, and befitting one that bringeth 
good tidings. It is less mechanical than on 
other days ; you will say, a That is not the 
post I am sure." Visions of Love, of Cupids, 
of Hymens ! — delightful eternal common-places, 
which "having been will always be ;" which 
no school-boy nor school-man can write away ; 
havingyour irreversible throne in the fancy and 
affections — what are your transports, when the 
happy maiden, opening with careful finger, care- 
ful not to break the emblematic seahburstsupon 
the sight of some well-designed allegory, some 
type, some youthful fancy, not without verses — 

Lovers all, 

A madrigal, 

or some such device, not over abundant in sense 
— young Love disclaims it, — and not quite silly 
— something between wind and water, a cho- 
rus where the sheep might almost join the 
shepherd, as they did, or as I apprehend they 
did, in Arcadia. 

All Valentines are not foolish ; and I shall 
not easily forget thine, my kind friend (if I 
may have leave to call you so) E. B. — E.B. lived 
opposite a young maiden whom he had often 
seen, unseen, from his parlour window in 
C — e-street. She was all joyousness and in- 
nocence, and just of an age to enjoy receiving 
a Valentine, and just of a temper to bear the 
disappointment of missing one with good-hu- 
mour. E. B. is an artist of no common powers ; 
in the fancy parts of designing, perhaps infe- 
rior to none ; his name is known at the bottom 
of many a well-executed vignette in the way 



of his profession, but no further ; for E. B. is 
modest, and the world meets nobody half-way. 
E. B. meditated how he could repay this young 
maiden for many a favour which she had done 
him unknown; for when a kindly face greets us, 
though but passing by, and never knows us again, 
nor we it, we should feel it as an obligation : 
and E. B. did. This good artist set himself at 
work to please the damsel. It was just before 
Valentine's day three years since. He wrought, 
unseen and unsuspected, a wondrous work. 
"We need not say it was on the finest gilt paper 
with borders — full, not of common hearts and 
heartless allegory, but all the prettiest stories 
of love from Ovid, and older poets than Ovid 
(for E. B. is a scholar). There was Pyra- 
mus and Thisbe, and be sure Dido was not 
forgot, nor Hero and Leander, and swans 
more than sang in Cayster, with mottos and 
fanciful devices, such as beseemed, — a work 
in short of magic. Iris dipt the woof. This 
on Valentine's eve he commended to the 
all-swallowing indiscriminate orifice — (0 ig- 
noble trust !) — of the common post ; but the 
humble medium did its duty, and from his 
watchful stand, the next morning he saw the 
cheerful messenger knock, and by and by the 
precious charge delivered. He saw, unseen, 
the happy girl unfold the Valentine, dance 
about, clap her hands, as one after one the 
pretty emblems unfolded themselves. She 
danced about, not with light love, or foolish 
expectations, for she had no lover ; or, if she 
had, none she knew that could have created 
those bright images which delighted her. It 
was more like some fairy present ; a God-send, 
as our familiarly pious ancestors termed a 
benefit received where the benefactor was un- 
known. It would do her no harm. It would 
do her good for ever after. It is good to love 
the unknown. I only give this as a specimen 
of E. B. and his modest way of doing a con- 
cealed kindness. 

Good morrow to my Valentine, sings poor 
Ophelia ; and no better wish, but with better 
auspices, we wish to all faithful lovers, who are 
not too wise to despise old legends, but are 
content to rank themselves humble diocesans 
of old Bishop Valentine and his true church. 



44 



ELIA. 



MY RELATIONS, 



I am arrived at that point of life at which 
a man may account it a blessing, as it is a sin- 
gularity, if he have either of his parents sur- 
viving. I have not that felicity — and some- 
times think feelingly of a passage in Browne's 
Christian Morals, where he speaks of a man 
that hath lived sixty or seventy years in the 
world. " In such a compass of time," he says, 
" a man may have a close apprehension what 
it is to be forgotten, when he hath lived to find 
none who could remember his father, or 
scarcely the friends of his youth, and may 
sensibly see with what a face in no long time 
Oblivion will look upon himself." 

I had an aunt, a dear and good one. She 
was one whom single blessedness had soured 
to the world. She often used to say, that I 
was the only thing in it which she loved ; and, 
when she thought I was quitting it, she grieved 
over me with mother's tears. A partiality 
quite so exclusive my reason cannot altogether 
approve. She was from morning till night 
poring over good books, and devotional ex- 
ercises. Her favourite volumes were, Thomas 
a Kempis, in Stanhope's translation ; and a 
Roman Catholic Prayer Book, with the matins 
and complines regularly set down, — terms which 
I was that time too young to understand. She 
persisted in reading them, although admonished 
daily concerning their Papistical tendency; and 
went to church every Sabbath as a good Pro- 
testant should do. These were the only books 
she studied ; though, I think at one period of 
her life, she told me, she had read with great 
satisfaction the Adventures of an Unfortunate 
Young Nobleman. Finding the door of the 
chapel in Essex-street open one day — it was 
in the infancy of that heresy — she went in, 
liked the sermon, and the manner of worship, 
and frequented it at intervals for some time 
after. She came not for doctrinal points, and 
never missed them. "With some little aspe- 
rities in her constitution, which I have above 



hinted at, she was a steadfast, friendly being, 
and a fine old Christian. She was a woman of 
strong sense, and a shrewd mind — extraordi- 
nary at a repartee ; one of the few occasions of 
her breaking silence — else she did not much 
value wit. The only secular employment I 
remember to have seen her engaged in, was, 
the splitting of French beans, and dropping 
them into a china basin of fair water. The 
odour of those tender vegetables to this day 
comes back upon my sense, redolent of sooth- 
ing recollections. Certainly it is the most 
delicate of culinary operations. 

Male aunts, as somebody calls them, I had 
none — to remember. By the uncle's side I. 
may be said to have been born an orphan. 
Brother, or sister, I never had any — to know 
them. A sister, I think, that should have been 
Elizabeth, died in both our infancies. What 
a comfort, or what a care, may I not have 
missed in her ! — But I have cousins sprinkled 
about in Hertfordshire — besides two, with, 
whom I have been all my life in habits of the 
closest intimacy, and whom I may term cousins 
par excellence. These are James and Bridget 
Elia. They are older than myself by twelve, 
and ten, years ; and neither of them seems 
disposed, in matters of advice and guidance, 
to waive any of the prerogatives which primo- 
geniture confers. May they continue still 
in the same mind ; and when they shall be 
seventy-five, and seventy-three, years old (I 
cannot spare them sooner), persist in treating 
me in my grand climacteric precisely as a strip- 
ling, or younger brother ! 

James is an inexplicable cousin. Nature 
hath her unities, which not every critic can- 
penetrate ; or, if we feel, we cannot explain 
them. The pen of Yorick, and of none since 
his, could have drawn J. E. entire — those fine 
Shandean lights and shades, which make up 
his story. I must limp after in my poor antithe- 
tical manner, as the fates have given me grace 



MY RELATIONS. 



45 



and talent. J. E. then— to the eye of a common 
observer at least — seemeth made up of contra- 
dictory principles. The genuine child of im- 
pulse, the frigid philosopher of prudence — the 
phlegm of my cousin's doctrine is invariably at 
war with his temperament, which is high san- 
guine. With always some fire-new project in 
his brain, J. E. is the systematic opponent of 
innovation, and crier down of every thing that 
has not stood the test of age and experiment. 
With a hundred fine notions chasing one an- 
other hourly in his fancy, he is startled at the 
least approach to the romantic in others : and, 
determined by his own sense in every thing, 
commends you to the guidance of common 
sense on all occasions. — With a touch of the 
eccentric in all which he does, or says, he is 
only anxious that you should not commit your- 
self by doing anything absurd or singular. 
On my once letting slip at table, that I was 
not fond of a certain popular dish, he begged 
me at any rate not to say so — for the world 
would think me mad. He disguises a passion- 
ate fondness for works of high art (whereof 
he hath amassed a choice collection), under 
the pretext of buying only to sell again — that 
his enthusiasm may give no encouragement 
to yours. Yet, if it were so, why does that 
piece of tender, pastoral Domenichinohang still 
by his wall ? — is the ball of his sight much 
more dear to him ? — or what picture-dealer can 
talk like him ? 

Whereas mankind in general are observed 
to warp their speculative conclusions to the 
bent of their individual humours, his theories 
are sure to be in diametrical opposition to his 
constitution. He is courageous as Charles of 
Sweden, upon instinct ; chary of his person 
upon principle, as a travelling Quaker. — He 
has been preaching up to me, all my life, the 
doctrine of bowing to the great — the necessity 
of forms, and manner, to a man's getting on 
in the world. He himself never aims at 
either, that I can discover, — and has a spirit, 
that would stand upright in the presence of 
the Cham of Tartary. It is pleasant to hear 
him discourse of patience — extolling it as 
the truest wisdom — and to see him during 
the last seven minutes that his dinner is get- 
ting ready. Nature never ran up in her haste 
a more restless piece of workmanship than 
when she moulded this impetuous cousin — 



and Art never turned out a more elaborate 
orator than he can display himself to be, upon 
this favourite topic of the advantages of quiet 
and contentedness in the state, whatever it 
be, that we are placed in. He is triumphant 
on this theme, when he has you safe in 
one of those short stages that ply for the 
western road, in a very obstructing manner, 
at the foot of John Murray's street — where 
you get in when it is empty, and are expected 
to wait till the vehicle hath completed her just 
freight — a trying three quarters of an hour to 
some people. He wonders at your fidgetiness, 
— " where could we be better than we are, thus 
sitting, thus consulting ? " — " prefers, for his part, 
a state of rest to locomotion," — with an eye 
all the while upon the coachman, — till at 
length, waxing out of all patience, at your 
tcant of it, he breaks out into a pathetic remon- 
strance at the fellow for detaining us so long 
over the time which he had professed, and 
declares peremptorily, that " the gentleman 
in the coach is determined to get out, if he 
does not drive on that instant." 

Very quick at inventing an argument, or 
detecting a sophistry, he is incapable of attend- 
ing you in any chain of arguing. Indeed he 
makes wild work with logic ; and seems to 
jump at most admirable conclusions by some 
process, not at all akin to it. Consonantly 
enough to this, he hath been heard to deny, 
upon certain occasions, that there exists such 
a faculty at all in man as reason ; and wondereth 
how man came first to have a conceit of it — 
enforcing his negation with all the might of 
reasoning he is master of. He has some specu- 
lative notions against laughter, and will main- 
tain that laughing is not natural to him — when 
peradventure the next moment his lungs shall 
crow like Chanticleer. He says some of the 
best things in the world — and declareth that 
wit is his aversion. It was he who said, upon 
seeing the Eton boys at play in their grounds 
— What a pity to think, that these fine ingenuous 
lads in a few years will all be changed into frivolous 
Members of Parliament / 

His youth was fiery, glowing, tempestuous — 
and in age he discovereth no symptom of 
cooling. This is that which I admire in him. 
I hate people who meet Time half-way. I am 
for no compromise with that inevitable spoiler. 
While he lives, J. E. will take his swing. — It 



4G 



ELIA. 



does me good, as I walk towards the street of 
my daily avocation, on some fine May morning, 
to meet him marching in a quite opposite 
direction, with a jolly handsome presence, and 
shining sanguine face, that indicates some pur- 
chase in his eye — a Claude— or a Hobbima — 
for much of his enviable leisure is consumed 
at Christie's and Phillips's— or where not, to 
pick up pictures, and such gauds. On these 
occasions he mostly stoppeth me, to read a 
short lecture on the advantage a person like 
me possesses above himself, in having his time 
occupied with business which he must do — 
assureth me that he often feels it hang heavy 
on his hands — wishes he had fewer holidays — 
and goes off — "Westward Ho! — chanting a 
tune, to Pall Mall — perfectly convinced that 
he has convinced me — while I proceed in my 
opposite direction tuneless. 

It is pleasant again to see this Professor 
of Indifference doing the honours of his new 
purchase, when he has fairly housed it. You 
must view it in every light, till he has found 
the best — placing it at this distance, and at 
that, but always suiting the focus of your sight 
to his own. You must spy at it through your 
fingers, to catch the aerial perspective— though 
you assure him that to you the landscape shows 
much more agreeable without that artifice. 
"Woe be to the luckless wight, who does not 
only not respond to his rapture, but who should 
drop an unseasonable intimation of preferring 
one of his anterior bargains to the present ! 
— The last is always his best hit — his " Cynthia 
of the minute." — Alas ! how many a mild 
Madonna have I known to come in — a Ra- 
phael ! — keep its ascendancy for a few brief 
moons — then, after certain intermedial degra- 
dations, from the front drawing-room to the 
back gallery, thence to the dark parlour, — 
adopted in turn by each of the Carracci, under 
successive lowering ascriptions of filiation, 
mildly breaking its fall — consigned to the 
oblivious lumber-room, go out at last a Lucca 
Giordano, or plain Carlo Maratti ! — which 
things when I beheld — musing upon the 
chances and mutabilities of fate below, hath 
made me to reflect upon the altered condition 
of great personages, or that woeful Queen of 
Richard the Second-^- 

f set forth in pomp, 

She came adorned hither like sweet May- 
Sent back like Hollowmass or shortest day. 



"With great love for you, J. E. hath but a 
limited sympathy with what you feel or do. 
He lives in a world of his own, and makes 
slender guesses at what passes in your mind. 
He never pierces the marrow of your habits. 
He will tell an old established playgoer, that 
Mr. Such-a-one, of So-and-so (naming one of 
the theatres), is a very lively comedian — as a 
piece of news ! He advertised me but the 
other day of some pleasant green lanes which 
he had found out for me, knowing me to be a 
great walker, in my own immediate vicinity — 
who have haunted the identical spot any time 
these twenty years ! — He has not much respect 
for that class of feelings which goes by the 
name of sentimental. He applies the defini- 
tion of real evil to bodily sufferings exclusively 
— and rejecteth all others as imaginary. He 
is affected by the sight, or the bare supposi- 
tion, of a creature in pain, to a degree which 
I have never witnessed out of womankind. 
A constitutional acuteness to this class of 
sufferings may in part account for this. The 
animal tribe in particular he taketh under his 
especial protection. A broken-winded or 
spur-galled horse is sure to find an advocate 
in him. An over-loaded ass is his client for 
ever. He is the apostle to the brute kind — 
the never-failing friend of those who have 
none to care for them. The contemplation 
of a lobster boiled, or eels skinned alive, will 
wring him so, that " all for pity he could die.'* 
It will take the savour from his palate, and 
the rest from his pillow, for days and nights. 
With the intense feeling of Thomas Clarkson, 
he wanted only the steadiness of pursuit, and 
unity of purpose, of that " true yoke-fellow 
with Time," to have effected as much for the 
Animal, as he hath done for the Negro Creation. 
But my uncontrollable cousin is but imperfectly 
formed for purposes which demand co-opera- 
tion. He cannot wait. His amelioration- 
plans must be ripened in a day. For this 
reason he has cut but an equivocal figure in 
benevolent societies, and combinations for the 
alleviation of human sufferings. His zeal 
constantly makes him to outrun, and put out, 
his coadjutors. He thinks of relieving, — 
while they think of debating. He was black- 
balled out of a society for the Relief of * 
* * ***** *^ because the fervour of his 
humanity toiled beyond the formal apprehen- 



MACKERY END, IN HERTFORDSHIRE. 



47 



sion, and creeping processes, of his associates. 
I shall always consider this distinction as a 
patent of nobility in the Elia family ! 

Do I mention these seeming inconsistencies 
to smile at, or upbraid, my unique cousin ? 
Marry, heaven, and all good manners, and the 
understanding that should be between kins- 
folk, forbid ! — With all the strangenesses of 
this strangest of the Ellas— -I would not have him 
in one jot or tittle other than he is ; neither 
would I barter or exchange my wild kinsman 



for the most exact, regular, and everyway con- 
sistent kinsman breathing. 

In my next, reader, I may perhaps give 
you some account of my cousin Bridget — if 
you are not already surfeited with cousins — 
and take you by the hand, if you are willing 
to go with us, on an excursion which we made 
a summer or two since, in search of more 
cousins — 

Through the green plains of pleasant Hertfordshire. 



MACKERY END, IN HERTFORDSHIRE. 



Bridget Elia has been my housekeeper 
for many a long year. I have obligations to 
Bridget, extending beyond the period of 
memory. We house together, old bachelor 
and maid, in a sort of double singleness ; with 
such tolerable comfort, upon the whole, that I, 
for one, find in myself no sort of disposition 
to go out upon the mountains, with the rash 
king's offspring, to bewail my celibacy. We 
agree pretty well in our tastes and habits — 
yet so, as " with a difference." W T e are gene- 
rally in harmony, with occasional bickerings 
— as it should be among near relations. Our 
sympathies are rather understood, than ex- 
pressed ; and once, upon my dissembling a 
tone in my voice more kind than ordioary, my 
cousin burst into tears, and complained that 
I was altered. We are both great readers in 
different directions. While I am hanging over 
(for the thousandth time) 1 some passage in old 
Burton, or one of his strange contemporaries, 
^he is abstracted in some modern tale, or 
adventure, whereof our common reading-table 
is daily fed with assiduously fresh supplies. 
Narrative teases me. I have little concern in the 
progress of events. She must have a story — 
well, ill, or indifferently told— so there be life 
stirring in it, and plenty of good or evil acci- 
dents. The fluctuations of fortune in fiction 
— and almost in real life — have ceased to 
interest, or operate but dully upon me. Out- 
of-the-way humours and opinions — heads with 
some diverting twist in them — the oddities of 
authorship please me most. My cousin has 



a native disrelish of anything that sounds odd 
or bizarre. Nothing goes down with her, that 
is quaint, irregular, or out of the road of com- 
mon sympathy. She "holds Nature more 
clever." I can pardon her blindness to the 
beautiful obliquities of the Religio Medici ; 
but she must apologise to me for certain disre- 
spectful insinuations, which she has been pleased 
to throw out latterly, touching the intellectuals 
of a dear favourite of mine, of the last century 
but one — the thrice noble, chaste, and virtuous, 
— but again somewhat fantastical, and original- 
brained, generous Margaret Newcastle. 

It has been the lot of my cousin, oftener 
perhaps than I could have wished, to have had 
for her associates and mine, free-thinkers — 
leaders, and disciples, of novel philosophies 
and systems ; but she neither wrangles with, 
nor accepts, their opinions. That which was 
good and venerable to her, when a child, 
retains its authority over her mind still. She 
never juggles or plays tricks with her under- 
standing. 

We are both of us inclined to be a little too 
positive ; and I have observed the result of 
our disputes to be almost uniformly this — that 
in matters of fact, dates, and circumstances, 
it turns out, that I was in the right, and my 
cousin in the wrong. But where we have 
differed upon moral points ; upon something 
proper to be done, or let alone ; whatever 
heat of opposition, or steadiness of conviction, 
I set out with, I am sure always, in the long- 
run, to be brought over to her way of thinking. 



48 



ELIA. 



I must touch upon the foibles of my 
kinswoman with a gentle hand, for Bridget 
does not like to be told of her faults. She 
hath an awkward trick (to say no worse of it) 
of reading in company : at which times she 
will answer yes or no to a question, without 
fully understanding its purport — which is pro- 
voking, and derogatory in the highest degree 
to the dignity of the putter of the said question. 
Her presence of mind is equal to the most 
pressing trials of life, but will sometimes 
desert her upon trifling occasions. "When the 
purpose requires it, and is a thing of moment, 
she can speak to it greatly ; but in matters 
which are not stuff of the conscience, she hath 
been known sometimes to let slip a word less 
seasonably. 

Her education in youth was not much 
attended to ; and she happily missed all that 
train of female garniture, which passeth by 
the name of accomplishments. She was 
tumbled early, by accident or design, into a 
spacious closet of good old English reading, 
without much selection or prohibition, and 
browsed at will upon that fair and wholesome 
pasturage. Had I twenty girls, they should 
be brought up exactly in this fashion. I know 
not whether their cliance in wedlock might 
not be diminished by it ; but I can answer for 
it, that it makes (if the worst come to the 
worst) most incomparable old maids. 

In a season of distress, she is the truest com- 
forter ; but in the teasing accidents, and minor 
perplexities, which do not call out the mill to 
meet them, she sometimes maketh matters 
worse by an excess of participation. If she 
does not always divide your trouble, upon the 
pleasanter occasions of life she is sure always 
to treble your satisfaction. She is excellent 
to be at a play with, or upon a visit ; but best, 
when she goes a journey with you. 

"We made an excursion together a few sum- 
mers since, into Hertfordshire, to beat up the 
quarters of some of our less-known relations 
in that fine corn country. 

The oldest thing I remember is Mackery 
End ; or Mackarel End, as it is spelt, perhaps 
more properly, in some old maps of Hertford- 
shire ; a farm-house, — delightfully situated 
within a gentle walk from Wheathampstead. 
I can just remember having been there, on a 
visit to a great-aunt, when I was a child, under 



the care of Bridget ; who, as I have said, is 
older than myself by some ten years. I wish 
that I could throw into a heap the remainder 
of our joint existences ; that we might share 
them in equal division. But that is impossible. 
The house was at that time in the occupation 
of a substantial yeoman, who had married my 
grandmother's sister. His name was Gladman. 
My grandmother was a Bruton, married to a 
Field. The Gladman s and the Brutons are 
still flourishing in that part of the county, but 
the Fields are almost extinct. More than forty 
years had elapsed since the visit I speak of ; 
and, for the greater portion of that period, we 
had lost sight of the other two branches also. 
Who or what sort of persons inherited Mackery 
End — kindred or strange folk — we were afraid 
almost to conjecture, but determined some day 
to explore. 

By somewhat a circuitous route, taking the 
noble park at Luton in our way from Saint 
Albans, we arrived at the spot of our anxious 
curiosity about noon. The sight of the old 
farm-house, though every trace of it was effaced 
from my recollection, affected me withapleasure 
which I had not experienced for many a year. 
For though / had forgotten it, we had never 
forgotten being there together, and we had 
been talking about Mackery End all our lives, 
till memory on my part became mocked with 
a phantom of itself, and I thought I knew the 
aspect of a place, which, when present, how 
unlike it was to that, which I had conjured up 
so many times instead of it ! 

Still the air breathed balmily about it ; the 
season was in the " heart of June," and I 
could say with the poet, 

But thou, that didst appear so fair 

To fond imagination, 
Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation ! 

Bridget's was more a waking bliss than mine, 
for she easily remembered her old acquaint- 
ance again — some altered features, of course, 
a little grudged at. At first, indeed, she was 
ready to disbelieve for joy ; but the scene 
soon re-confirmed itself in her affections — and 
she traversed every out-post of the old mansion, 
to the wood-house, the orchard, the place where 
the pigeon-house had stood (house and birds 
were alike flown) — with a breathless impatience 
of recognition, which was more pardonable 



MY FIRST PLAY. 



49 



perhaps than decorous at the age of fifty odd. 
But Bridget in some things is behind her 
years. 

The only thing left was to get into the house 
—and that was a difficulty which to me singly 
would have been insurmountable ; for I am 
terribly shy in making myself known to 
strangers and out-of-date kinsfolk. Love, 
stronger than scruple, winged my cousin in 
without me ; but she soon returned with a 
creature that might have sat to a sculptor for 
the image of Welcome. It was the youngest 
of the Gladmans ; who, by marriage with a 
Bruton, had become mistress of the old mansion. 
A comely brood are the Brutons. Six of them, 
females, were noted as the handsomest young 
women in the county. But this adopted Bruton, 
in my mind, was better than they all — more 
comely. She was born too late to have remem- 
bered me. She just recollected in early life 
to have had her cousin Bridget once pointed 
out to her, climbing a stile. But the name 
of kindred, and of cousinship, was enough. 
Those slender ties, that prove slight as gos- 
samer in the rending atmosphere of a metro- 
polis, bind faster, as we found it, in hearty, 
homely, loving Hertfordshire. In five minutes 
we were as thoroughly acquainted as if we had 
been born and bred up together ; were familiar, 
even to the calling each other by our Christian 
names. So Christians should call one another. 
To have seen Bridget, and her — it was like the 
meeting of the two scriptural cousins ! There 
was a grace and dignity, an amplitude of form 
and stature, answering to her mind, in this 



farmer's wife, which would have shined in a 
palace— or so we thought it. "We were made 
welcome by husband and wife equally — we, 
and our friend that was with us. — I had almost 
forgotten him — but B. F. will not so soon 
forget that meeting, if peradventure he shall 
read this on the far distant shores where the 
kangaroo haunts. The fatted calf was made 
ready, or rather was already so, as if in antici- 
pation of our coming ; and, after an appro- 
priate glass of native wine, never let me forget 
with what honest pride this hospitable cousin 
made us proceed to Wheathampstead, to 
introduce us (as some new-found rarity) to 
her mother and sister Gladmans, who did 
indeed know something more of us, at a time 
when she almost knew nothing. — With what 
corresponding kindness we were received by 
them also — how Bridget's memory, exalted by 
the occasion, warmed into a thousand half- 
obliterated recollections of things and persons, 
to my utter astonishment, and her own — and 
to the astoundment of B. F. who sat by, almost 
the only thing that was not a cousin there, — 
old effaced images of more than half-forgotten 
names and circumstances still crowding back 
upon her, as words written in lemon come out 
upon exposure to a friendly warmth, — when I 
forget all this, then may my country cousins 
forget me ; and Bridget no more remember, 
that in the days of weakling infancy I was 
her tender charge — as I have been her care 
in foolish manhood since — in those pretty 
pastoral walks, long ago, about Mackery End, 
in Hertfordshire. 



MY FIRST PLAY. 



At the noi th end of Cross-court there yet 
stands a portal, of some architectural preten- 
sions, though reduced to humble use, serving 
at present for an entrance to a printing-office. 
This old door-way, if you are young, reader, 
you may not know was the identical pit 
entrance to old Drury — Garrick's Drury — all 
of it that is left. I never pass it without 
shaking some forty years from off my shoulders, 
recurring to the evening when I passed through 



it to see my first play. The afternoon had been 
wet, and the condition of our going (the elder 
folks and myself) was, that the rain should 
cease. With what a beating heart did I watch 
from the window the puddles, from the still- 
ness of which I was taught to prognosticate 
the desired cessation ! I seem to remember the 
last spurt, and the glee with which I ran to 
announce it. 

We went with orders, which my godfather 



= 



50 



ELIA. 



F. had sent us. He kept the oil shop (now 
Davies's) at the corner of Featherstone- 
buildings, in Holborn. F. was a tall grave 
person, lofty in speech, and had pretensions 
above his rank. He associated in those days 
with John Palmer, the comedian, whose gait 
and bearing he seemed to copy ; if John 
(which is quite as likely) did not rather borrow 
somewhat of his manner from my godfather. 
He was also known to, and visited by, Sheridan. 
It was to his house in Holborn that young 
Brinsley brought his first wife on her elope- 
ment with him from a boarding-school at Bath — 
the beautiful Maria Linley. My parents were 
present (over a quadrille table) when he arrived 
in the evening with his harmonious charge. 
From either of these connexions it may be in- 
ferred that my godfather could command an 
order for the then Drury-lane theatre at 
pleasure — and, indeed, a pretty liberal issue of 
those cheap billets, in Brinsley's easy auto- 
graph, I have heard him say was the sole remu- 
neration which he had received for many 
years' nightly illumination of the orchestra and 
various avenues of that theatre— and he was 
content it should be so. The 'honour of 
Sheridan's familiarity — or supposed familiarity 
— was better to my godfather than money. 

F. was the most gentlemanly of oilmen ; 
grandiloquent, yet courteous. His delivery of 
the commonest matters of fact was Ciceronian. 
He had two Latin words almost constantly in 
his mouth (how odd sounds Latin from an oil- 
man's lips !), which my better knowledge since 
has enabled me to correct. In strict pronun- 
ciation they should have been sounded vice 
versa — but in those young years they impressed 
me with more awe than they would now do, 
read aright from Seneca or Varro — in his own 
peculiar pronunciation, monosyllabically elabo- 
rated, or Anglicized, into something like verse 
verse. By an imposing manner, and the help 
of these distorted syllables, he climbed (but 
that was little) to the highest parochial honours 
which St. Andrew's has to bestow. 

He is dead — and thus much I thought due to 
his memory, both for my first orders (little 
wondrous talismans !— slight keys, and insig- 
nificant to outward sight, but opening to me 
more than Arabian paradises !) and moreover 
that by his testamentary beneficence I came 
into possession of the only landed property 



which I could ever call my own — situate near 
the road-way village of pleasant Puckeridge, 
in Hertfordshire. When I journeyed down 
to take possession, and planted foot on my own 
ground, the stately habits of the donor de- 
scended upon me, and I strode (shall I confess 
the vanity ?) with larger paces over my allot- 
ment of three quarters of an acre, with its 
commodious mansion in the midst, with the 
feeling of an English freeholder that all 
betwixt sky and centre was my own. The 
estate has passed into more prudent hands, and 
nothing but an agrarian can restore it. 

In those days were pit orders. Beshrew the 
uncomfortable manager who abolished them ! 
— with one of these we went. I remember the 
waiting at the door — not that which is left — 
but between that and an inner door in shelter 
— when shall I be such an expectant again ! 
—with the cry of nonpareils, an indispensable 
play-house accoinpaniment in those days. As 
near as I can recollect, the fashionable pro- 
nunciation of the theatrical fruiteresses then 
was, " Chase some oranges, chase some num- 
parels, chase a bill of the play ;" — chase pro 
chuse. But when we got in, and I beheld the 
green curtain that veiled a heaven to my ima- 
gination, which was soon to be disclosed — the 
breathless anticipations I endured ! I had seen 
something like it in the plate prefixed to 
Troilus and Cressida, in Rowe's Shakspeare — 
the ient scene with Diomede — and a sight of 
that plate can always bring back in a measure 
the feeling of that evening. — The boxes at that 
time, full of well-dressed women of quality, 
projected over the pit : and the pilasters 
reaching down were adorned with a glistering 
substance (I know not what) under glass (as 
it seemed), resembling — a homely fancy — but 
I judged it to be sugar-candy — yet, to my raised 
imagination, divested of its homelier qualities, 
it appeared a glorified candy ! — The orchestra 
lights at length arose, those " fair Auroras i" 
Once the bell sounded. It was to ring out 
yet once again — and, incapable of the antici- 
pation, I reposed my shut eyes in a sort of 
resignation upon the maternal lap. It rang 
the second time. The curtain drew up — I was 
not past six years old and the play was 
Artaxerxes ! 

I had dabbled a little in the Universal History 
— the ancient part of it — and here was the 



MY FIRST PLAY. 



51 



court of Persia. — It was being admitted to a 
sight of the past. I took no proper interest in 
the action going on, for I understood not its 
import — but I heard the word Darius, and I 
was in the midst of Daniel. All feeling was 
absorbed in vision. , Gorgeous vests, gardens, 
palaces, princesses, passed before me. I knew 
not players. I was in Persepolis for the time, 
and the burning idol of their devotion almost 
converted me into a worshipper. I was awe- 
struck, and believed those significations to be 
something more than elemental fires. It was 
all enchantment and a dream. No such 
pleasure has since visited me but in dreams- 
Harlequin's invasion followed ; where, I re- 
member, the transformation of the magistrates 
into reverend beldams seemed to me a piece of 
grave historic justice, and the tailor carrying 
his own head to be as sober a verity as the 
legend of St. Denys. 

The next play to which I was taken was the 
Lady of the Manor, of which, with the excep- 
tion of some scenery, very faint traces are left 
in my memory. It was followed by a panto- 
mime, called Lun's Ghost — a satiric touch, I 
apprehend, upon Rich, not long since dead — 
but to my apprehension (too sincere for satire), 
Lun was as remote a piece of antiquity as Lud 
— the father of a line of Harlequins — transmit- 
ting his dagger of lath (the wooden sceptre) 
through countless ages. I saw the primeval 
Motley come from his silent tomb in a ghastly 
vest of white patch- work, like the apparition 
of a dead rainbow. So Harlequins (thought I) 
look when they are dead. 

My third play followed in quick succession. 
It was the Way of the World. I think I must 
have sat at it as grave as a judge ; for, I re- 
member, the hysteric affectations of good Lady 
Wishfort affected me like some solemn tragic 
passion. Robinson Crusoe followed ; in which 
Crusoe, man Friday, and the parrot, were as 
good and authentic as in the story. — The 
clownery and pantaloonery of these panto- 
mimes have clean passed out of my head. I 
believe, I no more laughed at them, than at the 
same age I should have been disposed to laugh 
at the grotesque Gothic heads (seeming to me 
then replete with devout meaning) that gape, 



and grin, in stone around the inside of the old 
Round Church (my church) of the Templars. 

I saw these plays in the season 1781-2, when 
I was from six to seven years old. After the 
intervention of six or seven other years (for at 
school all play-going was inhibited) I again 
entered the doors of a theatre. That old 
Artaxerxes evening had never done ringing in 
my fancy. I expected the same feelings to 
come again with the same occasion. But we 
differ from ourselves less at sixty and sixteen, 
than the latter does from six. In that interval 
what had I not lost ! At the first period I knew 
nothing, understood nothing, discriminated 
nothing. I felt all, loved all, wondered all — 

Was nourished, I could not tell how — 
I had left the temple a devotee, and was re- 
turned a rationalist. The same things were 
there materially ; but the emblem, the reference, 
was gone ! — The green curtain was no longer 
a veil, drawn between two worlds, the unfolding 
of which was to bring back past ages to present 
a "royal ghost," — but a certain quantity of 
green baize, which was to separate the audience 
for a given time from certain of their felloW- 
men who were to come forward and pretend 
those parts. The lights — the orchestra lights 
—came up a clumsy machinery. The first ring, 
and the second ring, was now but a trick of 
the prompter's bell — which had been, like the 
note of the cuckoo, a phantom of a voice, no 
hand seen or guessed at which ministered to its 
warning. The actors were men and women 
painted. I thought the fault was in them ; 
but it was in myself, and the alteration which 
those many centuries, — of six short twelve- 
months — had wrought in me.— Perhaps it was 
fortunate for me that the play of the evening 
was but an indifferent comedy, as it gave me 
time to crop some unreasonable expecta- 
tions, which might have interfered with the 
genuine emotions with which I was soon after 
enabled to enter upon the first appearance to 
me of Mrs. Siddons in Isabella. Comparison 
and retrospection soon yielded to the present 
attraction of the scene ; and the theatre 
became to me, upon a new stock, the most 
delightful of recreations. 



ft 2 



ELIA. 



MODERN GALLANTRY 



In comparing modern with ancient manners, 
we are pleased to compliment ourselves upon 
the point of gallantry ; a certain obsequious- 
ness, or deferential respect, which we are 
supposed to pay to females, as females. 

I shall believe that this principle actuates 
our conduct, when I can forget, that in the 
nineteenth century of the era from which we 
date our civility, we are but just beginning to 
leave off the very frequent practice of whip- 
ping females in public, in common with the 
coarsest male offenders. 

I shall believe it to be influential, when I 
can shut my eyes to the fact, that in England 
women are still occasionally — hanged. 

I shall believe in it, when actresses are no 
longer subject to be hissed off a stage by 
gentlemen. 

I shall believe in it, when Dorimant hands 
a fish-wife across the kennel ; or assists the 
apple-woman to pick up her wanderiDg fruit, 
which some unlucky dray has just dissipated. 

I shall believe in it, when the Dorimants in 
humbler life, who would be thought in their 
way notable adepts in this refinement, shall 
act upon it in places where they are not 
known, or think themselves not observed — ■ 
when I shall see the traveller for some rich 
tradesman part with his admired box-coat, to 
spread it over the defenceless shoulders of 
the poor woman, who is passing to her parish 
on the roof of the same stage-coach with him, 
drenched in the rain — when I shall no longer 
see a woman standing up in the pit of a 
London theatre, till she is sick and faint with 
the exertion, with men about her, seated at 
their ease, and jeering at her distress ; till 
one, that seems to have more manners or con- 
science than the rest, significantly declares 
" she should be welcome to his seat, if she were 
a little younger and handsomer." Place this 
dapper warehouseman, or that rider, in a circle 
of their own female acquaintance, and you 



shall confess you have not seen a politer-bred 
man in Lothbury. 

Lastly, I shall begin to believe that there is 
some such principle influencing our conduct, 
when more than one-half of the drudgery and 
coarse servitude of the world shall cease to be 
performed by women. 

Until that day comes, I shall never believe 
this boasted point to be anything more than a 
conventional fiction ; a pageant got up be- 
tween the sexes, in a certain rank, and at a 
certain time of life, in which both find their 
account equally. 

I shall be even disposed to rank it among 
I the salutary fictions of life, when in polite 
circles I shall see the same attentions paid 
to age as to youth, to homely features as to 
handsome, to coarse complexions as to clear 
— to the woman, as she is a woman, not as she 
is a beauty, a fortune, or a title. 

I shall believe it to be something more than 
a name, when a well-dressed gentleman in a 
well-dressed company can advert to the topic 
of female old age without exciting, and intending 
to excite, a sneer : — when the phrases " anti- 
quated virginity," and such a one has " over- 
stood her market," pronounced in good com- 
pany, shall raise immediate offence in man, or 
woman, that shall hear them spoken. 

Joseph Paice, of Bread-street-hill, merchant, 
and one of the Directors of the South-Sea 
company — the same to whom Edwards, the 
Shakspeare commentator, has addressed a fine 
sonnet — was the only pattern of consistent 
gallantry I have met with. He took me under 
his shelter at an early age, and bestowed some 
pains upon me. I owe to his precepts and 
example whatever there is of the man of 
business (and that is not much) in my com- 
position. It was not his fault that I did not 
profit more. Though bred a Presbyterian, 
and brought up a merchant, he was the finest 
gentleman of his time. He had not one system 



MODERN GALLANTRY. 



53 



of attention to females in the drawing-room, 
and another in the shop, or at the stall. I do 
not mean that he made no distinction. But 
he never lost sight of sex, or overlooked it in 
the casualties of a disadvantageous situation. 
I have seen him stand bareheaded— smile if 
you please — to a poor servant girl, while she 
has been inquiring of him the way to some 
street— in such a posture of unforced civility, 
as neither to embarrass her in the acceptance, 
nor himself in the offer, of it. He was no 
dangler, in the common acceptation of the 
word, after women : but he reverenced and 
upheld, in every form in which it came before 
him, womanhood. I have seen him — nay, smile 
not — tenderly escorting a market-woman, 
whom he had encountered in a shower, exalt- 
ing his umbrella over her poor basket of fruit, 
that it might receive no damage, with as 
much carefulness as if she had been a Countess. 
To the reverend form of Female Eld he would 
yield the wall (though it were to an ancient 
beggar-woman) with more ceremony than we 
can afford to show our grandams. He was 
the Preux Ohevalier of Age ; the Sir Calidore, 
or Sir Tristan, to those who have no Calidores 
or Tristans to defend them. The roses, that 
had long faded thence, still bloomed for him 
in those withered and yellow cheeks. 

He was never married, but in his youth he 
paid his addresses to the beautiful Susan 
Winstanley — old Winstanley's daughter of 
Clapton — who dying in the early days of their 
courtship, confirmed in him the resolution of 
perpetual bachelorship. It was during their 
short courtship, he told me, that he had been 
one day treating his mistress with a profusion 
of civil speeches — the common gallantries — to 
which kind of thing she had hitherto mani- 
fested no repugnance — but in this instance 
with no effect. He could not obtain from her 
a decent acknowledgment in return. She 
rather seemed to resent his compliments. He 
could not set it down to caprice, for the lady 
had always shown herself above that littleness. 
When he ventured on the following day, 
finding her a little better humoured, to expos- 
tulate with her on her coldness of yesterday, 
she confessed, with her usual frankness, that 
she had no sort of dislike to his attentions ; 
that she could even endure some high-flown 
compliments ; that a young woman placed in 



her situation had a right to expect all sort of 
civil things said to her ; that she hoped she 
could digest a dose of adulation, short of 
insincerity, with as little injury to her humility 
as most young women : but that — a little 
before he had commenced his compliments — 
she had overheard him by accident, in rather 
rough language, rating a young woman, who 
had not brought home his cravats quite to the 
appointed time, and she thought to herself, 
" As I am Miss Susan "Winstanley, and a young 
lady — a reputed beauty, and known to be a 
fortune, — I can have my choice of the finest 
speeches from the mouth of this very fine 
gentleman who is courting me — but if I had 
been poor Mary Such-a-one (naming the mil- 
liner), — and had failed of bringing home the 
cravats to the appointed hour — though per- 
haps I had sat up half the night to forward 
them — what sort of compliments should I have 
received then ? — And my woman's pride came 
to my assistance ; and I thought, that if it 
were only to do me honour, a female, like 
myself, might have received handsomer usage : 
and I was determined not to accept any fine 
speeches, to the compromise of that sex, the 
belonging to which was after all my strongest 
claim and title to them." 

I think the lady discovered both generosity, 
and a just way of thinking, in this rebuke 
which she gave her lover ; and I have some- 
times imagined, that the uncommon strain of 
courtesy, which through life regulated the 
actions and behaviour of my friend towards 
all of womankind indiscriminately, owed its 
happy origin to this seasonable lesson from the 
lips of his lamented mistress. 

I wish the whole female world would enter- 
tain the same notion of these things that Miss 
Winstanley showed. Then we should see 
something of the spirit of consistent gallantry ; 
and no longer witness the anomaly of the 
same man — a pattern of true politeness to a 
wife — of cold contempt, or rudeness, to a sister 
— the idolater of his female mistress — the dis- 
parager and despiser of his no less female 
aunt, or unfortunate — still female — maiden 
cousin. Just so much respect as a woman 
derogates from her own sex, in whatever con- 
dition placed — her handmaid, or dependant — 
she deserves to have diminished from herself 
on that score ; and probably will feel the 



54 



ELIA. 



diminution, when youth, and beauty, and 
advantages, not inseparable from sex, shall 
lose of their attraction. What a woman should 
demand of a man in courtship, or after it, is 
first — respect for her as she is a woman ; — and 
next to that — to be respected by him above all 
other women. But let her stand upon her 



female character as upon a foundation ; and 
let the attentions, incident to individual pre- 
ference, be so many pretty additaments and 
ornaments — as many, and as fanciful, as you 
please — to that main structure. Let her first 
lesson be with sweet Susan Winstanley — to 
reverence her sex. 



THE OLD BENCHERS OF THE INNER TEMPLE. 



I was born, and passed the first seven years 
of my life, in the Temple. Its church, its halls, 
its gardens, its fountain, its river, I had almost 
said — for in those young years, what was this 
king of rivers to me but a stream that watered 
our pleasant places ? — these are of my oldest 
recollections. I repeat, to this day, no verses 
to myself more frequently, or with kindlier 
emotion, than those of Spenser, where he 
speaks of this spot. 
There when they came, whereas those bricky towers, 
The which on Themmes brode aged back doth ride, 
Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, 
There whylome wont the Templer knights to bide, 
Till they decayed through pride. 

Indeed, it is the most elegant spot in the me- 
tropolis. What a transition for a countryman 
visiting London for the first time — the passing 
from the crowded Strand or Fleet-street, by 
unexpected avenues, into its magnificent ample 
squares, its classic green recesses ! What a 
cheerful, liberal look hath that portion of it, 
which, from three sides, overlooks the greater 
garden ; that goodly pile 

Of building strong, albeit of Paper high^ 
confronting with massy contrast, the lighter, 
older, more fantastically shrouded one, named 
of Harcourt, with the cheerful Crown-office 
Row (place of my kindly engendure), right 
opposite the stately stream, which washes the 
garden-foot with her yet scarcely trade- 
polluted waters, and seems but just weaned 
from her Twickenham Naiades ! a man would 
give something to have been born in such 
places. What a collegiate aspect has that fine 
Elizabethan hall, where the fountain plays, 
which I have made to rise and fall, how many 
times ! to the astoundment of the young 



urchins, my contemporaries, who, not being 
able to guess at its recondite machinery, were 
almost tempted to hail the wondrous work as 
magic ! What an antique air had the now 
almost effaced sun-dials, with their moral 
inscriptions, seeming coevals with that Time 
which they measured, and to take their reve- 
lations of its flight immediately from heaven, 
holding correspondence with the fountain of 
light ! How would the dark line steal imper- 
ceptibly on, watched by the eye of childhood, 
eager to detect its movement, never catched, 
nice as an evanescent cloud, or the first arrests 
of sleep ! 

Ah ! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand 

Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived ! 

What a dead thing is a clock, with its pon- 
derous embowelments of lead and brass, its 
pert or solemn dulness of communication, 
compared with the simple altar-like structure, 
and silent heart-language of the old dial ! It 
stood as the garden god of Christian gardens. 
Why is it almost everywhere vanished ? If 
its business-use be superseded by more 
elaborate inventions, its moral uses, its 
beauty, might have pleaded for its con- 
tinuance. It spoke o'f moderate labours, of 
pleasures not protracted after sun-set, of tem- 
perance, and good hours. It was the primitive 
clock, the horologe of the first world. Adam 
could scarce have missed it in Paradise. It 
was the measure appropriate for sweet plants 
and flowers to spring by, for the birds to 
apportion their silver warblings by, for flocks 
to pasture and be led to fold by. The shep- 
herd " carved it out quaintly in the sun ;" and, 
turning philosopher by the very occupation, 
provided it with mottoes more touching than 



THE OLD BENCHERS OF THE INNER TEMPLE. 



55 



tombstones. It was a pretty device of the 
gardener, recorded by Marvell, who, in the 
days of artificial gardening, made a dial out of 
herbs and flowers. I must quote his verses a 
little higher up, for they are full, as all his 
serious poetry was, of a witty delicacy. They 
will not come in awkwardly, I hope, in a talk 
of fountains, and sun-dials. He is speaking of 
sweet garden scenes : — 

What wondrous life is this I lead ! 

Ripe apples drop about my head. 

The luscious clusters of the vine 

Upon my mouth do crush their wine. 

The nectarine, and curious peach, 

Into my hands themselves do reach. 

Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 

Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 

Withdraws into its happiness. 

The mind, that ocean, where each kind 

Does straight its own resemblance find ; 

Yet it creates, transcending these, 

Far other worlds, and other seas ; 

Annihilating all that's made 

To a green thought in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain's sliding foot, 

Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. 

Casting the body's vest aside, 

My soul into the boughs does glide ; 

There, like a bird, it sits and sings, 

Then wets and claps its silver wings, 

And, till prepared for longer flight, 

Waves in its plumes the various light. 

How well the skilful gardener drew, 

Of flowers and herbs, this dial new ! 

Where, from above, the milder sun 

Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 

And, as it works, the industrious bee 

Computes its time as well as we. 

How could such sweet and wholesome hours 

Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers* ? 

The artificial fountains of the metropolis are, 
in like manner, fast vanishing. Most of them 
are dried up, or bricked over. Yet, where one 
is left, as in that little green nook behind the 
South-Sea House, what a freshness it gives to 
the dreary pile ! Four little winged marble 
boys used to play their virgin fancies, spouting 
out ever fresh streams from their innocent- 
wanton lips in the square of Lincoln's-inn, when 
I was no bigger than they were figured. They 
are gone, and the spring choked up. The 
fashion, they tell me, is gone by, and these 
things are esteemed childish. Why not then 



From a copy of verses entitled The Garden. 



gratify children, by letting them stand ? 
Lawyers, I suppose, were children once. 
They are awakening images to them at least. 
"Why must everything smack of man and 
mannish ? Is the world all grown up ? Is 
childhood dead ? Or is there not in the 
bosoms of the wisest and the best some of the 
child's heart left, to respond to its earliest 
enchantments ? The figures were grotesque. 
Are the stiff-wigged living figures, that still 
flitter and chatter about that area, less Gothic 
in appearance ? or is the splutter of their hot 
rhetoric one half so refreshing and innocent 
as the little cool playful streams those exploded 
cherubs uttered ? 

They have lately gothicised the entrance to 
the Inner Temple-hall, and the library front: to 
assimilate them, I suppose, to the body of the 
hall, which they do not at all resemble. What 
is become of the winged horse that stood over 
the former ? a stately arms ! and who has 
removed those frescoes of the Virtues, which 
Italianized the end of the Paper-buildings? — 
my first hint of allegory ! They must account 
to me for these things, which I miss so greatly. 

The terrace is, indeed, left, which we used 
to call the parade ; but the traces are passed 
away of the footsteps which made its pavement 
awful ! It is become common and profane. 
The old benchers had it almost sacred to them- 
selves, in the forepart of the day at least. 
They might not be sided or jostled. Their 
air and dress asserted the parade. You left 
wide spaces betwixt you, when you passed 
them. We walk on even terms with their 

successors. The roguish eye of J 11, ever 

ready to be delivered of a jest, almost invites 
a stranger to vie a repartee with it. But what 
insolent familiar durst have mated Thomas 
Coventry ? — whose person was a quadrate, his 
step massy and elephantine, his face square as 
the lion's, his gait peremptory and path-keep- 
ing, indivertible from his way as a moving 
column, the scarecrow of his inferiors, the 
brow-beater of equals and superiors, who made 
a solitude of children wherever he came, for 
they fled his insufferable presence, as they 
would have shunned an Elisha bear. His 
growl was as thunder in their ears, whether 
he spake to them in mirth or in rebuke, his 
invitatory notes being, indeed, of all, the most 
repulsive and horrid. Clouds of snuff, aggra- 



56 



ELIA. 



vating the natural terrors of his speech, broke 
from each majestic nostril, darkening the air. 
He took it, not by pinches, but a palmful at 
once, diving for it under the mighty flaps of 
his old-fashioned waistcoat pocket ; his waist- 
coat red and angry, his coat dark rappee, tinc- 
tured by dye original, and by adjuncts, with 
buttons of obsolete gold. And so he paced 
the terrace. 

By his side a milder form was sometimes to 
be seen ; the pensive gentility of Samuel Salt. 
They were coevals, and had nothing but that 
and their benchership in common. In politics 
Salt was a whig, and Coventry a staunch tory. 
Many a sarcastic growl did the latter cast out 
— for Coventry had a rough spinous humour 
■ — at the political confederates of his associate, 
which rebounded from the gentle bosom of the 
latter like cannon-balls from wool. You could 
not ruffle Samuel Salt. 

S. had the reputation of being a very clever 
man, and of excellent discernment in the 
chamber practice of the law. I suspect his 
knowledge did not amount to much. "When 
a case of difficult disposition of money, testa- 
mentary or otherwise, came before him, he 
ordinarily handed it over with a few instruc- 
tions to his man Lovel, who was a quick little 
fellow, and would despatch it out of hand by 
the light of natural understanding, of which 
he had an uncommon share. It was incredible 
what repute for talents S. enjoyed by the mere 
trick of gravity. He was a shy man ; a child 
might pose him in a minute — indolent and 
procrastinating to the last degree. Yet men 
would give him credit for vast application, in 
spite of himself. He was not to be trusted 
with himself with impunity. He never dressed 
for a dinner party but he forgot his sword — 
they wore swords then — or some other neces- 
sary part of his equipage. Lovel had his eye 
upon him on all these occasions, and ordinarily 
gave him his cue. If there was anything 
which he could speak unseasonably, he was 
sure to do it. — He was to dine at a relative's 
of the unfortunate Miss Blandy on the day of 
her execution ; — and L. who had a wary fore- 
sight of his probable hallucinations, before he 
set out, schooled him with great anxiety not in 
any possible manner to allude to her story that 
day. S. promised faithfully to observe the 
injunction. He had not been seated in the 



parlour, where the company was expecting the 
dinner summons, four minutes, when, a pause 
in the conversation ensuing, he got up, looked 
out of window, and pulling down his ruffles — 
an ordinary motion with him— observed, "it 
was a gloomy day," and added, " Miss Blandy 
must be hanged by this time, I suppose." 
Instances of this sort were perpetual. Yet S. 
was thought by some of the greatest men of 
his time a fit person to be consulted, not alone 
in matters pertaining to the law, but in the 
ordinary niceties and embarrassments of con- 
duct — from force of manner entirely. He 
never laughed. He had the same good fortune 
among the female world, — was a known toast 
with the ladies, and one or two are said to have 
died for love of him — I suppose, because he 
never trifled or talked gallantry with them, or 
paid them, indeed, hardly common attentions. 
He had a fine face and person, but wanted, 
methought, the spirit that should have shown 
them off with advantage to the women. His 
eye lacked lustre. — Not so, thought Susan 

P ; who, at the advanced age of sixty, was 

seen, in the cold evening time, unaccompanied, 

wetting the pavement of B d Bow, with 

tears that fell in drops which might be heard, 
because her friend had died that day — he, 
whom she had pursued with a hopeless passion 
for the last forty years — a passion, which years 
could not extinguish or abate ; nor the long- 
resolved, yet gently-enforced, puttings off of 
unrelenting bachelorhood dissuade from its 

cherished purpose. Mild Susan P , thou 

hast now thy friend in heaven ! 

Thomas Coventry was a cadet of the noble 
family of that name. He passed his youth in 
contracted circumstances, which gave him 
early those parsimonious habits which in after- 
life never forsook him ; so that, with one wind- 
fall or another, about the time I knew him he 
was master of four or five hundred thousand 
pounds ; nor did he look, or walk, worth a 
moidore less. He lived in a gloomy house 
opposite the pump in Serjeant's-inn, Fleet- 
street. J., the counsel, is doing-self-imposed 
penance in it, for what reason I divine not, at 
this day. C. had an agreeable seat at North 
Cray, where he seldom spent above a day or 
two at a time in the summer ; but preferred, 
during the hot months, standing at his window 
in this damp, close, well-like mansion, to watch, 



THE OLD BENCHERS OF THE INNER TEMPLE. 



57 



as he said, " the maids drawing water all day 
long." I suspect he had his within-door reasons 
for the preference. Hie currus et anna futre. 
He might think his treasures more safe. His 
house had the aspect of a strong-box. C. was 
a close hunks — a hoarder rather than a miser — 
or, if a miser, none of the mad Elwes breed, 
who have brought discredit upon a character, 
which cannot exist without certain admirable 
points of steadiness and unity of purpose. One 
may hate a true miser, but cannot, I suspect, so 
easily despise him. By taking care of the 
pence, he is often enabled to part with the 
pounds, upon a scale that leaves us careless 
generous fellows halting at an immeasurable 
distance behind. C. gave away 30,000?. at 
once in his life-time to a blind charity. His 
house-keeping was severely looked after, but 
he kept the table of a gentleman. He would 
know who came in and who went out of his 
house, but his kitchen chimney was never suf- 
fered to freeze. 

Salt was his opposite in this, as in all — never 
knew what he was worth in the world ; and 
having but a competency for his rank, which 
his indolent habits were little calculated to 
improve, might have suffered severely if he 
had not had honest people about him. Lovel 
took care of everything. He was at once his 
clerk, his good servant, his dresser, his friend, 
his "flapper," his guide, stop-watch, auditor, 
treasurer. He did nothing without consulting 
Lovel, or failed in anything without expecting 
and fearing his admonishing. He put himself 
almost too much in his hands, had they not 
been the purest in the world. He resigned his 
title almost to respect as a master, if L. could 
ever have forgotten for a moment that he was 
a servant. 

I knew this Lovel. He was a man of an 
incorrigible and losing honesty. A good fel- 
low withal, and ** would strike." In the cause 
of the oppressed he never considered inequa- 
lities, or calculated the number of his oppo- 
nents. He once wrested a sword out of the 
hand of a man of quality that had drawn upon 
| him ; and pommelled him severely with the 
i hilt of it. The swordsman had offered insult 
i to a female — an occasion upon which no odds 
against him could have prevented the inter- 
! ference of Lovel. He would stand next day 
bareheaded to the same person, modestly to 



excuse his interference — for L. never forgot 
rank, where something better was not con- 
cerned. L. was the liveliest little fellow 
breathing, had a face as gay as Garrick's, whom 
he was said greatly to resemble (I have a 
portrait of him which confirms it), possessed a 
fine turn for humorous poetry — next to Swift 
and Prior— moulded heads in clay or plaster of 
Paris to admiration, by the dint of natural 
genius merely ; turned cribbage boards, and 
such small cabinet toys, to perfection ; took a 
hand at quadrille or bowls with equal facility ; 
made punch better than any man of his degree 
in England ; had the merriest quips and con- 
ceits ; and was altogether as brimful of rogueries 
and inventions as you could desire. He was 
a brother of the angle, moreover, and just such 
a free, hearty, honest companion as Mr. Izaak 
Walton would have chosen to go a fishing with. 
I saw him in his old age and the decay of his 
faculties, palsy-smitten, in the last sad stage 
of human weakness — " a remnant most forlorn 
of what he was," — yet even then his eye would 
light up upon the mention of his favourite 
Garrick. He was greatest, he would say, in 
Bayes — " was upon the stage nearly throughout 
the whole performance, and as busy as a bee." 
At intervals, too, he would speak of his former 
life, and how he. came up a little boy from Lin- 
coln to go to service, and how his mother 
cried at parting with him, and how he returned, 
after some few years' absence, in his smart 
new livery, to see her, and she blessed herself 
at the change, and could hardly be brought to 
believe that it was " her own bairn." And 
then, the excitement subsiding, he would weep, 
till I have wished that sad second-childhood 
might have a mother still to lay its head upon 
her lap. But the common mother of us all in 
no long time after received him gently into 
hers. 

With Coventry, and with Salt, in their walks 
upon the terrace, most commonly Peter Pier- 
son would join to make up a third. They did 
not walk linked arm in arm in those days — " as 
now our stout triumvirs sweep the streets," — 
but generally with both hands folded behind 
them for state, or with one at least behind, 
the other carrying a cane. P. was a benevo- 
lent, but not a prepossessing man. He had 
that in his face which you could not term un- 
happiness ; it rather implied an incapacity of 



58 



ELIA. 



being happy. His cheeks were colourless even 
to whiteness. His look was uninviting, resem- 
bling (but without his sourness) that of our 
great philanthropist. I know that he did good 
acts, but I could never make out what he was. 
Contemporary with these, but subordinate, 
was Daines Barrington — another oddity — he 
walked burly and square — in imitation, I think, 
of Coventry — howbeit he attained not to the 
dignity of his prototype. Nevertheless, he did 
pretty well, upon the strength of being a toler- 
able antiquarian, and having a brother a bishop. 
When the account of his year's treasurership 
came to be audited, the following singular 
charge was unanimously disallowed by the 
bench : " Item, disbursed Mr. Allen, the gar- 
dener, twenty shillings, for stuff to poison the 
sparrows, by my orders." Next to him was old 
Barton — a jolly negation, who took upon him 
the ordering of the bills of fare for the parlia- 
ment chamber, where the benchers dine — an- 
swering to the combination rooms at College — 
much to the easement of his less epicurean 
brethren. I know nothing more of him. — Then 
Read, an d T wopeny — Read, good-humoured and 
personable — T wopeny, good-humoured, but 
thin, and felicitous in jests upon his own figure. 
If T. was thin, Wharry was attenuated and 
fleeting. Many must remember him (for he 
was rather of later date) and his singular gait, 
which was performed by three steps and a 
jump regularly succeeding. The steps were 
little efforts, like that of a child beginning to 
walk ; the jump comparatively vigorous, as a 
foot to an inch. Where he learned this figure, 
or what occasioned it, I could never discover. 
It was neither graceful in itself, nor seemed 
to answer the purpose any better than common 
walking. The extreme tenuity of his frame, 
I suspect, set him upon it. It was a trial of 
poising. Twopeny would often rally him upon 
his leanness, and hail him as Brother Lusty ; 
but W. had no relish of a joke. His features 
were spiteful. I have heard that he would 
pinch his cat's ears extremely, when any thing 
had offended him. Jackson — the omniscient 
Jackson he was called — was of this period. 
He had the reputation of possessing more mul- 
tifarious knowledge than any man of his time. 
He was the Friar Bacon of the less literate 
portion of the Temple. I remember a pleasant 
passage, of the cook applying to him, with 



much formality of apology, for instructions how 
to write down edge bone of beef in his bill of com- 
mons. He was supposed to know, if any man in 
the world did. He decided the orthography to be 
— as I have given it — fortifying his authority 
with such anatomical reasons as dismissed the 
manciple (for the time) learned and happy. 
Some do spell it yet, perversely, aitch bone, 
from a fanciful resemblance between its shape 
and that of the aspirate so denominated. I 
had almost forgotten Mingay with the iron 
hand — but he was somewhat later. He had 
lost his right hand by some accident, and sup- 
plied it with a grappling-hook, which he 
wielded with a tolerable adroitness. I de- 
tected the substitute, before I was old enough 
to reason whether it were artificial or not. I 
remember the astonishment it raised in me. 
He was a blustering, loud-talking person ; and 
I reconciled the phenomenon to my ideas as 
an emblem of power — somewhat like the horns 
in the forehead of Michael Angelo's Moses. 
Baron Maseres, who walks (or did till very 
lately) in the costume of the reign of George 
the Second, closes my imperfect recollections 
of the old benchers of the Inner Temple. 

Fantastic forms, whither are ye fled ? Or, 
if the like of you exist, why exist they no 
more for me ? Ye inexplicable, half-under- 
stood appearances, why comes in reason to 
tear away the preternatural mist, bright or 
gloomy, that enshrouded you ? Why make ye 
so sorry a figure in my relation, who made up 
to me — to my childish eyes — the mythology of 
the Temple ? In those days I saw Gods, as 
"old men covered with a mantle," walking upon 
the earth. Let the dreams of classic idolatry 
perish, — extinct be the fairies and fairy trum- 
pery of legendary fabling, in the heart of 
childhood, there will, for ever, spring up a 
well of innocent or wholesome superstition — 
the seeds of exaggeration will be busy there, 
and vital — from every-day forms educing the 
unknown and the uncommon. In that little 
Goshen there will be light, when the grown 
world flounders about in the darkness of sense 
and materiality. While childhood, and while 
dreams, reducing childhood, shall be left, ima- 
gination shall not have spread her holy wings 
totally to fly the earth. 



GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 



59 



p.S. — I have done injustice to the soft shade 
of Samuel Salt. See what it is to trust to 
imperfect memory, and the erring notices of 
childhood ! Yet I protest I always thought 
that he had been a bachelor ! This gentleman, 
R. N. informs me, married young, and losing his 
lady in childbed, within the first year of their 
union, fell into a deep melancholy, from the 
effects of which, probably, he never thoroughly 
recovered. In what a new light does this place 
his rejection (O call it by a gentler name !) of 

mild Susan P , unravelling into beauty 

certain peculiarities of this very shy and 
retiring character ! — Henceforth let no one 
receive the narratives of Elia for true records ! 
They are, in truth, but shadows of fact — veri- 
similitudes, not verities — or sitting but upon I 
the remote edges and outskirts of history. He 
is no such honest chronicler as R. N., and would 
have done better perhaps to have consulted that 
gentleman,, before he sent these incondite 
reminiscences to press. But the worthy sub- 
treasurer — who respects his old and his new 
masters — would but have been puzzled at the 
indecorous liberties of Elia. The good man 
wots not, peradventure, of the licence which 
Magazines have arrived at in this plain-speaking 



age, or hardly dreams of their existence beyond 
the Gentleman's — his furthest monthly excur- 
sions in this nature having been long confined 
to the holy ground of honest Urban's obituary. 
May it be long before his own name shall help 
to swell those columns of unenvied flattery ! 
— Meantime, O ye New Benchers of the Inner 
Temple, cherish him kindly, for he is himself 
the kindliest of human creatures. Should in- 
firmities overtake him — he is yet in green and 
vigorous senility — make allowances for them, 
remembering that "ye yourselves are old." 
So may the Winged Horse, your ancient badge 
and cognisance, still flourish ! so may future 
Hookers and Seldens illustrate your church 
and chambers ! so may the sparrows, in default 
of more melodious quiristers, unpoisoned hop 
about your walks ! so may the fresh-coloured 
and cleanly nursery-maid, who, by leave, airs 
her playful charge in your stately gardens, 
drop her prettiest blushing curtsy as ye pass, 
reductive of juvenescent emotion ! so may the 
younkers of this generation eye you, pacing 
your stately terrace, with the same supersti- 
tious veneration, with which the child Elia 
gazed on the Old Worthies that solemnised 
the parade before ye I 



GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 



The custom of saying grace at meals had, 
probably, its origin in the early times of the 
world, and the hunter-state of man, when 
dinners were precarious things, and a full 
meal was something more than a common 
blessing ! when a belly-full was a wind-fall, 
and looked like a special providence. In the 
shouts and triumphal songs with which, after 
a season of sharp abstinence, a lucky booty of 
deer's or goat's flesh would naturally be ushered 
home, existed, perhaps, the germ of the modern 
grace. It is not otherwise easy to be under- 
stood, why the blessing of food — the act of eat- 
ing — should have had a particidar expression 
of thanksgiving annexed to it, distinct from 
that implied and silent gratitude with which 
we are expected to enter upon the enjoyment 



of the many other various gifts and good things 
of existence. 

I own that I am disposed to say grace upon 
twenty other occasions in the course of the 
day besides my dinner. I want a form for 
setting out upon a pleasant walk, for a moonlight 
ramble, for a friendly meeting, or a solved 
problem. Why have we none for books, those 
spiritual repasts — a grace before Milton — a 
grace before Shakspeare — a devotional exer- 
cise proper to be said before reading the Fairy 
Queen ? — but the received ritual having pre- 
scribed these forms to the solitary ceremony 
of manducation, I shall confine my observa- 
tions to the experience which I have had of 
the grace, properly so called ; commending 
my new scheme for extension to a niche in 



GO 



ELIA. 



the grand philosophical, poetical, and per- 
chance in part heretical, liturgy, now com- 
pilingby my friend Homo Humanus,for the use 
of a certain snug congregation of Utopian Rabe- 
lsesian Christians, no matter where assembled. 

The form, then, of the benediction before 
eating has its beauty at a poor man's table, or 
at the simple and unprovocative repasts of 
children. It is here that the grace becomes 
exceedingly graceful. The indigent man, who 
hardly knows whether he shall have a meal 
the next day or not, sits down to his fare with 
a present sense of the blessing, which can be 
but feebly acted by the rich, into whose minds 
the conception of wanting a dinner could 
never, but by some extreme theory, have en- 
tered. The proper end of food — the animal 
sustenance — is barely contemplated by them. 
The poor man's bread is his daily bread, lite- 
rally his bread for the day. Their courses are 
perennial. 

Again the plainest diet seems the fittest to 
be preceded by the grace. That which is 
least stimulative to appetite, leaves the mind 
most free for foreign considerations. A man 
may feel thankful, heartily thankful, over a 
dish of plain mutton with turnips, and have 
leisure to reflect upon the ordinance and 
institution of eating ; when he shall confess a 
perturbation of mind, inconsistent with the 
purposes of the grace, at the presence of 
venison or turtle. When I have sate (a varus 
Jwspes) at rich men's tables, with the savoury 
soup and messes steaming up the nostrils, and 
moistening the lips of the guests with desire 
and a distracted choice, I have felt the intro- 
duction of that ceremony to be unseasonable. 
With the ravenous orgasm upon you, it seems 
impertinent to interpose a religious sentiment. 
It is a confusion of purpose to mutter out 
praises from a mouth that waters. The heats 
of epicurism put out the gentle flame of devo- 
tion. The incense which rises round is pagan, 
and the belly-god intercepts it for his own. 
The very excess of the provision beyond the 
needs, takes away all sense of proportion be- 
tween the end and means. The giver is veiled 
by his gifts. You are startled at the injustice 
of returning thanks — for what ? — for having too 
much, while so many starve. It is to praise 
the Gods amiss. 

I have observed this awkwardness felt, scarce 



consciously perhaps, by the good man who says 
the grace. I have seen it in clergymen and 
others — a sort of shame — a sense of the co- 
presence of circumstances which unhallow the 
blessing. After a devotional tone put on for a 
few seconds, how rapidly the speaker will fall 
into his common voice ! helping himself or his 
neighbour, as if to get rid of some uneasy sen- 
sation of hypocrisy. Not that the good man 
was a hypocrite, or was not most conscientious 
in the discharge of the duty ; but he felt in his 
inmost mind the incompatibility of the scene 
and the viands before him with the exercise 
of a calm and rational gratitude. 

I hear somebody exclaim, — Would you have 
Christians sit down at table, like hogs to their 
troughs, without remembering the Giver? — 
no — I would have them sit down as Christians, 
remembering the Giver, and less like hogs. 
Or if their appetites must run riot, and they 
must pamper themselves with delicacies for 
which east and west are ransacked, I would 
have them postpone their benediction to a 
fitter season, when appetite is laid ; when 
the still small voice can be heard, and the 
reason of the grace returns — with temperate 
diet and restricted dishes. Gluttony and sur- 
feiting are no proper occasions for thanksgiving. 
When Jeshurun waxed fat, we read that he 
kicked. Virgil knew the harpy-nature better, 
when he put into the mouth of Celaeno anything 
but a blessing. We may be gratefully sensible 
of the deliciousness of some kinds of food 
beyond others, though that is a meaner and 
inferior gratitude : but the proper object of 
the grace is sustenance, not relishes; daily 
bread, not delicacies ; the means of life, and 
not the means of pampering the carcass. With 
what frame or composure, I wonder, can a 
city chaplain pronounce his benediction at 
some great Hall-feast, when he knows that 
his last concluding pious word — and that in 
all probability, the sacred name which he 
preaches — is but the signal for so many impa- 
tient harpies to commence their foul orgies, 
with as little sense of true thankfulness (which 
is temperance) as those Virgilian fowl ! It is 
well if the good man himself does not feel his 
devotions a little clouded, those foggy sen- 
suous steams mingling with and polluting the 
pure altar sacrifice. 

The severest satire upon full tables and 



GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 



fil 



surfeits is the banquet which Satan, in the 
Paradise Regained, provides for a temptation 
in the wilderness : 

A table richly spread in regal mode 
With dishes piled, and meats of noblest sort 
And savour ; beasts of chase, or fowl of game, 
In pastry built, or from the spit, or boiled, 
Gris-amber-steamed ; all fish from sea or shore, 
Freshet or purling brook, for which was drained 
Pontus, and Lucrine bay, and Afric coast. 

The Tempter, I warrant you, thought these 
cates would go down without the recommen- 
datory preface of a benediction. They are 
like to be short graces where the devil plays 
the host.— I am afraid the poet wants his usual 
decorum in this place. Was he thinking of 
the old Roman luxury, or of a gaudy day at 
Cambridge ? This was a temptation fitter for 
a Heliogabalus. The whole banquet is too 
civic and culinary, and the accompaniments 
altogether a profanation of that deep, ab- 
stracted holy scene. The mighty artillery of 
sauces, which the cook-fiend conjures up, is 
out of proportion to the simple wants and 
plain hunger of the guest. He that disturbed 
him in his dreams, from his dreams might 
have been taught better. To the temperate 
fantasies of the famished Son of God, what 
sort of feasts presented themselves ? — He 
dreamed indeed, 

As appetite is wont to dream, 

Of meats and drinks, nature's refreshment sweet. 

But what meats ?— 

Him thought, he by the brook of Cherith stood, 
And saAv the ravens with their horny beaks 
Food to Elijah bringing even and morn ; 
Though ravenous, taught to abstain from what 

they brought : 
He saw the prophet also how he fled 
Into the desert and how there he slept 
Under a juniper ; then how awaked 
He found his supper on the coals prepared, 
And by the angel was bid rise and eat, 
And ate the second time after repose, 
The strength whereof sufficed him forty days : 
Sometimes, that with Elijah he partook, 
Or as a guest with Daniel at his pulse. 

Nothing in Milton is finelier fancied than these 
temperate dreams of the divine Hungerer. 
To which of these two visionary banquets, 
think you, would the introduction of what is 
called the grace have been the most fitting 
and pertinent ? 

Theoretically I am no enemy to graces ; but 



practically I Own that (before meat especially) 
they seem to involve something awkward and un- 
seasonable. Our appetites, of one or another 
kind, are excellent spurs to our reason, which 
might otherwise but feebly set about the great 
ends of preserving and continuing the species. 
They are fit blessings to be contemplated at a 
distance with a becoming gratitude ; but the 
moment of appetite (the judicious reader will 
apprehend me) is, perhaps, the least fit season 
for that exercise. The Quakers, who go about 
their business of every description with more 
calmness than we, have more title to the use of 
these benedictory prefaces. I have always ad- 
mired their silent grace, and the more because I 
have observed their applications to the meat and 
drink following to be less passionate and sen- 
sual than ours. They are neither gluttons nor 
wine-bibbers as a people. They eat, as a horse 
bolts his chopped hay, with indifference, calm- 
ness, and cleanly circumstances. They neither 
grease nor slop themselves. When I see a 
citizen in his bib and tucker, I cannot ima- 
gine it a surplice. 

I am no Quaker at my food. I confess I am 
not indifferent to the kinds of it. Those 
unctuous morsels of deer's flesh were not 
made to be received with dispassionate ser- 
vices. I hate a man who swallows it, affecting 
not to know what he is eating. I suspect his 
taste in higher matters. I shrink instinctively 
from one who professes to like minced veal. 
There is a physiognomical character in the 
tastes for food. C holds that a man can- 
not have a pure mind who refuses apple-dump- 
lings. I am not certain but he is right. With 
the decay of my first innocence, I confess a 
less and less relish daily for those innocuous 
cates. The whole vegetable tribe have lost 
their gust with me. Only I stick to asparagus, 
which still seems to inspire gentle thoughts. 
I am impatient and querulous under culinary 
disappointments, as to come home at the dinner 
hour, for instance, expecting some savoury mess, 
and to find one quite tasteless and sapidless. 
Butter ill melted — that commonest of kitchen 
failures — puts me beside my tenor. — The 
author of the Rambler used to make inarticu- 
late animal noises over a favourite food. Was 
this the music quite proper to be preceded 
by the grace ? or would the pious man have 
done better to postpone his devotions to a sea- 



62 



ELIA. 



son when the blessing might be contemplated 
with less perturbation ? I quarrel with no 
man's tastes, nor would set my thin face 
against those excellent things, in their way, 
jollity and feasting. But as these exercises, 
however laudable, have little in them of grace 
or gracefulness, a man should be sure, before 
he ventures so to grace them, that while he is 
pretending his devotions otherwhere, he is not 
secretly kissing his hand to some great fish — his 
Dagon — with a special consecration of no ark 
but the fat tureen before him. Graces are 
the sweet preluding strains to the banquets of 
angels and children ; to the roots and severer 
repasts of the Chartreuse ; to the slender, but 
not slenderly acknowledged, refection of the 
poor and humble man : but at the heaped-up 
boards of the pampered and the luxurious 
they become of dissonant mood, less timed 
and tuned to the occasion, methinks, than the 
noise of those better befitting organs would be 
which children hear tales of, at Hog's Norton. 
We sit too long at our meals, or are too curious 
in the study of them, or too disordered in our 
application to them, or engross too great a 
portion of those good things (which should be 
common) to our share, to be able with any 
grace to say grace. To be thankful for what 
we grasp exceeding our proportion, is to add 
hypocrisy to injustice. A lurking sense of 
this truth is what makes the performance of 
this duty so cold and spiritless a service at 
most tables. In houses where the grace is as 
indispensable as the napkin, who has not seen 
that never-settled question arise, as to who 
shall say it 1 while the good man of the house 
and the visitor clergyman, or some other guest 
belike of next •authority, from years or gravity, 
shall be bandying about the office between 
them as a matter of compliment, each of them 
not unwilling to shift the awkward burthen of 
an equivocal duty from his own shoulders ? 

I once drank tea in company with two 
Methodist divines of different persuasions, 
whom it was my fortune to introduce to each 
other for the first time that evening. Before 
the first cup was handed round, one of these 
reverend gentlemen put it to the other, with all 



due solemnity, whether he chose to say any- 
thing. It seems it is the custom with some 
sectaries to put up a short prayer before this 
meal also. His reverend brother did not at 
first quite apprehend him, but upon an expla- 
nation, with little less importance he made 
answer that it was not a custom known in his 
church : in which courteous evasion the other 
acquiescing for good manners' sake, or in com- 
pliance with a weak brother, the supplement- 
ary or tea-grace was waived altogether. With 
what spirit might not Lucian have painted two 
priests, of his religion, playing into each other's 
hands the compliment of performing or omit- 
ting a sacrifice, — the hungry God meantime, 
doubtful of his incense, with expectant nostrils 
hovering over the two flamens, and (as between 
two stools) going away in the end without his 
supper ! 

A short form upon these occasions is felt to 
want reverence ; a long one, I am afraid, cannot 
escape the charge of impertinence. I do not 
quite approve of the epigrammatic conciseness 
with which that equivocal wag (but my pleasant 
school-fellow) C. V. L., when importuned for a 
grace, used to inquire, first slyly leering down 
the table, " Is there no clergyman here," — 
significantly adding, " Thank G — ." Nor do I 
think our old form at school quite pertinent, 
where we were used to preface our bald bread- 
and-cheese-suppers with a preamble, connecting 
with that humble blessing a recognition of 
benefits the most awful and overwhelming to 
j the imagination which religion has to offer. 
Non tunc illis erat locus. I remember we were 
put to it to reconcile the phrase " good 
creatures," upon which the blessing rested, 
with the fare set before us, wilfully under- 
standing that expression in a low and animal 
sense, — till some one recalled a legend, which 
told how, in the golden days of Christ's, the 
young Hospitallers were wont to have smoking 
joints of roast meat upon their nightly boards, 
till some pious benefactor, commiserating the 
decencies, rather than the palates, of the 
children, commuted our flesh for garments, and 
gave us — horresco referens — trousers instead of 
mutton. 



DREAM-CHILDREN ; A REVERIE. 



63 



DREAM-CHILDREN; A REVERIE. 



Children love to listen to stories about 
their elders, when they were children ; to 
stretch their imagination to the conception of 
a traditionary great-uncle, or grandame, whom 
they never saw. It was in this spirit that my 
little ones crept about me the other evening 
to hear a bouttheir great-grandmother Field, 
who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hun- 
dred times bigger than that in which they and 
papa lived) which had been the scene — so at 
least it was generally believed in that part of 
the country— of the tragic incidents which they 
had lately become familiar with from the 
ballad of the Children in the Wood. Certain 
it is that the whole story of the children and 
their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved 
out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the 
great hall, the whole story down to the Robin 
Redbreasts ; till a foolish rich person pulled it 
down to set up a marble one of modern inven- 
tion in its stead, with no story upon it. Here 
Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, 
too tender to be called upbraiding. Then I 
went on to say, how religious and how good 
their great-grandmother Field was,howbeloved 
and respected by everybody, though she was 
not indeed the mistress of this great house, but 
had only the charge of it (and yet in some 
respects she might be said to be the mistress 
I of it too) committed to her by the owner, who 
I preferred living in a newer and more fashion- 
| able mansion which he had purchased soine- 
! where in the adjoining county ; but still she 
lived in it in a manner as if it had been her 
own, and kept up the dignity of the great 
house in a sort while she lived, which after- 
wards came to decay, and was nearly pulled 
down, and all its old ornaments stripped and 
carried away to the owner's other house, where 
they were set up, and looked as awkward as 
if some one were to carry away the old tombs 
they had seen lately at the Abbey, and stick 
them up in Lady C.'s tawdry gilt drawing-room. 
Here John smiled, as much as to say, " that 
would be foolish indeed." And then I told how, 
when she came to die, her funeral was attended 



by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the 
gentry too, of the neighbourhood for many 
miles round, to show their respect for her 
memory, because she had been such a good 
and religious woman ; so good indeed that she 
knew all the Psaltery by heart, ay, and a great 
part of the Testament besides. Here little 
Alice spread her hands. Then I told what a 
tall, upright, graceful person their great-grand- 
mother Field once was ; and how in her youth 
she was esteemed the best dancer — here 
Alice's little right foot played an involuntary 
movement, till, upon my looking grave, it 
desisted — the best dancer, I was saying, in the 
county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, 
came, and bowed her down with pain ; but it 
could never bend her good spirits, or make 
them stoop, but they were still upright, because 
she was so good and religious. Then I told 
how she was used to sleep by herself in a lone 
chamber of the great lone house ; and how she 
believed that an apparition of two infants was 
to be seen at midnight gliding up and down 
the great staircase near where she slept, but 
she said "those innocents would do her no 
harm ;" and how frightened I used to be, though 
in those days I had my maid to sleep with me, 
because I was never half so good or religious 
as she — and yet I never saw the infants. Here 
John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to 
look courageous. Then I told how good she 
was to all her grandchildren, having us to the 
great house in the holydays, where I in parti- 
cular used to spend many hours by myself, in 
gazing upon the old busts of the twelve Caesars, 
that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old 
marble heads would seem to live again, or I to 
be turned into marble with them ; how I 
never could be tired with roaming about that 
huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with 
their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, 
and carved oaken pannels, with the gilding 
almost rubbed out — sometimes in the spacious 
old-fashioned gardens, which I had almost to 
myself, unless when now and then a solitary 
gardening man would cross me — and how the 



64 



KL1A. 



nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls, 
without my ever offering to pluck them, 
because they were forbidden fruit, unless 
now and then, — and because I had more plea- 
sure in strolling about among the old melan- 
choly-looking yew-trees, or the firs, and 
picking up the red berries, and the fir-apples, 
which were good for nothing but to look at — 
or in lying about upon the fresh grass with all 
the fine garden smells around me — or basking 
in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself 
ripening too along with the oranges and the 
limes in that grateful warmth — or in watching 
the dace that darted to and fro in the fish-pond, 
at the bottom of the garden, with here and 
there a great sulky pike hanging midway down 
the water in silent state, as if it mocked at their 
impertinent friskings, — I had more pleasure 
in these busy-idle diversions than in all the 
sweet flavours of peaches, nectarines, oranges, 
and such-like common baits of children. Here 
John slyly deposited back upon the plate a 
bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by 
Alice, he had meditated dividing with her, and 
both seemed willing to relinquish them for the 
present as irrelevant. Then, in somewhat a 
more heightened tone, I told how, though their 
great-grandmother Field loved all her grand- 
children, yet in an especial manner she might 

be said to love their uncle, John L , because 

he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and 
a king to the rest of us ; and, instead of 
moping about in solitary corners, like some 
of us, he would mount the most mettlesome 
horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger 
than themselves, and make it carry him half 
over the county in a morning, and join the 
hunters when there were any out — and yet he 
loved the old great house and gardens too, 
but had too much spirit to be always pent up 
within their boundaries — and how their uncle 
grew up to man's estate as brave as he was 
handsome, to the admiration of everybody, 
but of their great-grandmother Field most 
especially ; and how he used to carry me upon 
his back when I was a lame-footed boy — for 
he was a good bit older than me — many a mile 
when I could not walk for pain ; — and how in 
after life he became lame-footed too, and I did 
not always (I fear) make allowances enough 
for him when he was impatient, and in pain, 
nor remember sufficiently how considerate he 



had been to me when I was lame-footed ; and 
how when he died, though he had not been 
dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a 
great while ago, such a distance there is be- 
twixt life and death ; and how I bore his 
death as I thought pretty well at first, but 
afterwards it haunted and haunted me ; and 
though I did not cry or take it to heart as 
some do, and as I think he would have done 
if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, 
and knew not till then how much I had 
loved him. I missed his kindness, and I 
missed his crossness, and wished him to be 
alive again, to be quarrelling with him (for we 
quarrelled sometimes), rather than not have 
him again, and was as uneasy without him, as he 
their poor uncle must have been when the doctor 
took off his limb. — Here the children fella cry- 
ing, and askpd if their little mourning which 
they had on was not for uncle John, and they 
looked up, and prayed me not to go on about 
their uncle, but to tell them some stories about 
their pretty dead mother. Then I told how for 
seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes 
in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the 
fair Alice W — n ; and, as much as children 
could understand, I explained to them what 
coyness, and difficulty, and denial, meant in 
maidens — when suddenly, turning to Alice, 
the soul of the first Alice looked out at her 
eyes with such a reality of re-presentment, 
that I became in doubt which of them stood 
there before me, or whose that bright hair was ; 
and while I stood gazing, both the children 
gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, 
and still receding, till nothing at last but two 
mournful features were seen in the uttermost 
distance, which, without speech, strangely im- 
pressed upon me the effects of speech : " We 
are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we chil- 
dren at all. The children of Alice call Bar- 
trum father. We are nothing ; less than 
nothing, and dreams. We are only what 
might have been, and must wait upon the 
tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before 
we have existence, and a name " and im- 
mediately awaking, I found myself quietly 
seated in my bachelor arm-chair, where I had 
fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget un- 
changed by my side — but John L. (or James 
Elia) was gone for ever. 



DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS. 



65 



DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS. 

IN A LETTER TO B. F. ESQ., AT SYDNEY, NEW SOUTH WALES. 



My dear F. — When I think how welcome 
the sight of a letter from the world where you 
were born must be to you in that strange one 
to which you have been transplanted, I feel 
some compunctious visitings at my long silence. 
But, indeed, it is no easy effort to set about a 
correspondence at our distance. The weary 
world of waters between us oppresses the 
imagination. It is . difficult to conceive how a 
scrawl of mine should ever stretch across it. 
It is a sort of presumption to expect that one's 
thoughts should live so far. It is like writing 
for posterity ; and reminds me of one of Mrs. 
Rowe's superscriptions, "Alcander to Strephon 
in the shades." Cowley's Post-Angel is no 
more than would be expedient in such an 
intercourse. One drops a packet at Lombard- 
street, and in twenty-four hours a friend in 
Cumberland gets it as fresh as if it came in 
ice. It is only like whispering through a long 
trumpet. But suppose a tube let down from 
the moon, with yourself at one end, and the 
man at the other ; it would be some balk to 
the spirit of conversation, if you knew that 
the dialogue exchanged with that interesting 
theosophist would take two or three revolu- 
tions of a higher luminary in its passage. Yet 
for aught I know, you may be some parasangs 
nigher that primitive idea— Plato's man — than 
we in England here have the honour to reckon 
ourselves. 

Epistolary matter usually compriseth three 
topics ; news, sentiment, and puns. In the 
latter, I include all non-serious subjects ; or 
subjects serious in themselves, but treated after 
my fashion, non-seriously. — And first, for news. 
In them the most desirable circumstance, I 
suppose, is that they shall be true. But what 
security can I have that what I now send you 
for truth shall not, before you get it, unac- 
countably turn into a lie ? For instance, our 
mutual friend P. is at this present writing — my 



Now — in good health, and enjoys a fair share 
of worldly reputation. You are glad to hear 
it. This is natural and friendly. But at this 
present reading — your Now — he may possibly 
be in the Bench, or going to be hanged, which 
in reason ought to abate something of your 
transport (i. e. at hearing he was well, &c), or 
at least considerably to modify it. I am going 
to the play this evening, to have a laugh with 
Munden. You have no theatre, I think you 

told me, in your land of d d realities. You 

naturally lick your lips, and envy me my feli- 
city. Think but a moment, and you will 
correct the hateful emotion. Why it is Sunday 
morning with you, and 1823. This confusion 
of tenses, this grand solecism of two presents, is 
in a degree common to all postage. But if I 
sent you word to Bath or the Devizes, that I 
was expecting the aforesaid treat this evening, 
though at the moment you received the intel- 
ligence my full feast of fun would be over, yet 
there would be for a day or two after, as you 
would well know, a smack, a relish left upon 
my mental palate, which would give rational 
encouragement for you to foster a portion at 
least of the disagreeable passion, which it was 
in part my intention to produce. But ten 
months hence, your envy or your sympathy 
would be as useless as a passion spent upon the 
dead. Not only does truth, in these long inter- 
vals, un-essence herself, but (what is harder) 
one cannot venture a crude fiction, for the fear 
that it may ripen into a truth upon the voyage. 
What a wild improbable banter I put upon you 

some three years since of Will Weatherall 

having married a servant-maid ! I remember 
gravely consulting you how we were to receive 
her — for Will's wife was in no case to be 
rejected ; and your no less serious replication 
in the matter ; how tenderly you advised an 
abstemious introduction of literary topics 
before the lady, with a caution not to be too 



66 



ELIA. 



forward in bringing on the.crvrpet matters more 
within the sphere of her intelligence ; your 
deliberate judgment, or rather wise suspension 
of sentence, how far jacks, and spits, and mops, 
could with propriety be introduced as subjects ; 
whether the conscious avoiding of all such 
matters in discourse would not have a worse 
look than the taking of them casually in our 
way ; in what manner we should carry our- 
selves to our maid Becky, Mrs. William Wea- 
therall being by ; whether we should show 
more delicacy, and a truer sense of respect for 
Will's wife, by treating Becky with our cus- 
tomary chiding before her, or by an unusual 
deferential civility paid to Becky as to a person 
of great worth, but thrown by the caprice of 
fate into a humble station. There were diffi- 
culties, I remember, on both sides, whieh you 
did me the favour to state with the precision of 
a lawyer, united to the tenderness of a friend. 
I laughed in my sleeve at your solemn pleadings, 
when lo ! while I was valuing myself upon this 
flam put upon you in New South Wales, the 
devil in England, jealous possibly of any lie- 
children not his own, or working after my 
copy, has actually instigated our friend (not 
three days since) to the commission of a matri- 
mony, which I had only conjured up for your 
diversion, William Weatherall has married 
Mrs. Cotterel's maid. But to take it in its 
truest sense, you will see, my dear F., that 
news from me must become history to you ; 
which I neither profess to write, nor indeed 
care much for reading. No person under a 
diviner, can with any prospect of veracity con- 
duct a correspondence at such an arm's length. 
Two prophets, indeed, might thus interchange 
intelligence with effect ; the epoch of the 
writer (Habbakuk) falling in with the true 
present time of the receiver (Daniel) ; but then 
we are no prophets. 

Then as to sentiment. It fares little better 
with that. This kind of dish, above all, re- 
quires to be served up hot ; or sent off in 
water-plates, that your friend may have it 
almost as warm as yourself. If it have time to 
cool, it is the most tasteless of all cold meats. 
I have often smiled at a conceit of the late 
Lord C. It seems that travelling somewhere 
about Geneva, he came to some pretty green 
spot, or nook, where a willow, or something 
hung so fantastically and invitingly over a 



stream — was it ? — or a rock ? — no matter — but 
the stillness and the repose, after a weary 
journey 'tis likely, in a languid moment of his 
Lordship's hot restless life, so took his fancy 
that he could imagine no place so proper, in 
the event of his death, to lay his bones in. This 
was all very natural and excusable as a senti- 
ment, and shows his character in a very 
pleasing light. But when from a passing sen- 
timent it came to be an act ; and when, by a 
positive testamentary disposal, his remains 
were actually carried all that way from 
England ; who was there, some desperate sen- 
timentalists excepted, that did not ask the 
question, Why could not his lordship have 
found a spot as solitary, a nook as romantic, a 
tree as green and pendent, with a stream as 
emblematic to his purpose, in Surrey, in Dorset, 
or in Devon ? Conceive the sentiment boarded 
up, freighted, entered at the Custom House 
(startling the tide-waiters with the novelty), 
hoisted into a ship. Conceive it pawed about 
and handled between the rude jests of tar 
paulin ruffians — a thing of its delicate texture 
— the salt bilge wetting it till it became as 
vapid as a damaged lustring. Suppose it in 
material danger (mariners have some supersti- 
tion about sentiments) of being tossed over in 
a fresh gale to some propitiatory shark (spirit 
of Saint Gothard, save us from a quietus so 
foreign to the deviser's purpose !) but it has 
happily evaded a fishy consummation. Trace 
it then to its lucky landing — at Lyons shall we 
say ? — I have not the map before me — jostled 
upon four men's shoulders — baiting at this 
town — stopping to refresh at t'other village — 
waiting a passport here, a licence there ; the 
sanction of the magistracy in this district, the 
concurrence of the ecclesiastics in that canton ; 
till at length it arrives at its destination, tired 
out and jaded, from a brisk sentiment, into a 
feature of silly pride or tawdry senseless affec- 
tation. How few sentiments, my dear F., I 
am afraid we can set down, in the sailor's phrase, 
as quite sea- worthy. 

Lastly, as to the agreeable levities, which, 
though contemptible in bulk, are the twinkling 
corpuscula which should irradiate a right 
friendly epistle — your puns and small jests are, 
I apprehend, extremely circumscribed in their 
sphere of action. They are so far from a 
capacity of being packed up and sent beyond 



DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS. 



07 



sea, they will scarce endure to be transported 
by hand from this room to the next. Their 
vigour is as the instant of their birth. Their 
nutriment for their brief existence is the intel- 
lectual atmosphere of the by-standers : or this 
last is the fine slime of Nilus — the melior lutus — 
whose maternal recipiency is as necessary as 
the sol pater to their equivocal generation. A 
pun hath a hearty kind of present ear-kissing 
smack with it ; you can no more transmit it in 
its pristine flavour, than you can send a kiss. — 
Have you not tried in some instances to palm 
off a yesterday's pun upon a gentleman, and 
has it answered ? Not but it was new to his 
hearing, but it did not seem to come new from 
you. It did not hitch in. It was like picking 
up at a village ale-house a two-days'-old news- 
paper. You have not seen it before, but you 
resent the stale thing as an affront. This sort 
of merchandise above all requires a quick 
return. A pun, and its recognitory laugh, 
must be co-instantaneous. The one is the 
brisk lightning, the other the fierce thunder. 

A moment's interval, and the link is snapped. 
A pun is reflected from a friend's face as from 
a mirror. "Who would consult his sweet vis- 
nomy, if the polished surface were two or three 
minutes (not to speak of twelve months, my 
dear F.) in giving back its copy ? 

I cannot image to myself whereabout you 
are. When I try to fix it, Peter Wilkins's 
island comes across me. Sometimes you seem 
to be in the Hades of Thieves. I see Diogenes 
prying among you with his perpetual fruitless 
lantern. What must you be willing by this 
time to give for the sight of an honest man ! 
You must almost have forgotten how ice look. 
And tell me, what your Sydneyites do ? are 
they th**v*ng all day long ? Merciful heaven ? 
what property can stand against such a depre- 
dation ! The kangaroos— your Aborigines — do 
they keep their primitive simplicity un-Europe- 
tainted, with those little short fore puds, 
looking like a lesson framed by nature to the 
pickpocket ! Marry, for diving into fobs they 
are rather lamely provided a priori ; but if the 
hue and cry were once up, they would show as 
fair a pair of hind-shifters as the expertest 
loco-motor in the colony. — We hear the most 
improbable tales at this distance. Pray is it 



true that the young Spartans among you are 
born with six fingers, which spoils their scan- 
ning ? — It must look very odd ; but use re- 
conciles. For their scansion, it is less to be 
regretted, for if they take it into their heads 
to be poets, it is odds but they turn out, the 
greater part of them, vile plagiarists. — Is there 
much difference to see, too, between the son of 
a th**f, and the grandson \ or where does the 
taint stop ? Do you bleach in three or in four 
generations ? — I have many questions to put, 
but ten Delphic voyages can be made in a 
shorter time than it will take to satisfy my 
scruples. — Do you grow your own hemp ? — 
What is your staple trade, — exclusive of the 
national profession, I mean ? Your lock- 
smiths, I take it, are some of your great 
capitalists. 

I am insensibly chatting to you as familiarly 
as when we used to exchange good-morrows 
out of our old contiguous windows, in pump- 
famed Hare-court in the Temple. Why did 
you ever leave that quiet corner ? — Why did I ? 
— with its complement of four poor elms, from 
whose smoke-dyed barks, the theme of jesting 
ruralists, I picked my first lady-birds ! My 
heart is as dry as that spring sometimes proves 
in a thirsty August, when I revert to the space 
that is between us ; a length of passage enough 
to render obsolete the phrases of our English 
letters before they can reach you. But while 
I talk, I think you hear me, — thoughts dallying 
with vain surmise — 

Aye me ! while thee the seas and sounding shores 

Hold far away. 

Come back, before I am grown into a very 
old man, so as you shall hardly know me. 
Come, before Bridget walks on crutches. Girls 
whom you left children have become sage 
matrons while you are tarrying there. The 
blooming Miss W — r (you remember Sally 
W — r) called upon us yesterday, an aged crone. 
Folks, whom you knew, die off every year. 
Formerly, I thought that death was wearing 
out, — I stood ramparted about with so many 
healthy friends. The departure of J. W., two 
springs back, corrected my delusion. Since 
then the old divorcer has been busy. If you 
do not make haste to return, there will be 
little left to greet you, of me, or mine. 



68 



ELIA. 



THE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS. 



I like to meet a sweep — understand me — 
not a grown sweeper — old chimney-sweepers 
are by no means attractive — but one of those 
tender novices, blooming through their first 
nigritude, the maternal washings not quite 
effaced from the cheek — such as come forth 
with the dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their 
little professional notes sounding like the peep 
peep of a young sparrow ; or liker to the matin 
lark should I pronounce them, in their aerial 
ascents not seldom anticipating the sun-rise ? 

I have a kindly yearning toward these dim 
specks — poor blots — innocent blacknesses — 

I reverence these young Africans of our 
own growth — these almost clergy imps, who 
sport their cloth without assumption ; and from 
their little pulpits (the tops of chimneys,) in 
the nipping air of a December morning, preach 
a lesson of patience to mankind. 

"When a child, what a mysterious pleasure 
it was to witness their operation ! to see a chit 
no bigger than one's-self, enter, one knew not 
by what process, into what seemed the fauces 
Avernl — to pursue him in imagination, as he 
went sounding on through so many dark 
stifling caverns, horrid shades ! — to shudder 
with the idea that " now, surely, he must be 
lost for ever !" — to revive at hearing his feeble 
shout of discovered day-light — and then (0 
fulness of delight !) running out of doors, to 
come just in time to see the sable phenomenon 
emerge in safety, the brandished weapon of his 
art victorious like some flag waved over a con- 
quered citadel ! I seem to remember having 
been told, that a bad sweep was once left in a 
stack with his brush, to indicate which way the 
wind blew. It was an awful spectacle certainly ; 
not much unlike the old stage direction in 
Macbeth, where the " Apparition of a child 
crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises." 

Reader, if thou meetest one of these small 
gentry in thy early rambles, it is good to give 
him a penny. It is better to give him two- 



pence. If it be starving weather, and to the 
proper troubles of his hard occupation, a pair 
of kibed heels (no unusual accompaniment) be 
superadded, the demand on thy humanity will 
surely rise to a tester. 

There is a composition, the ground- work of 
which I have understood to be the sweet wood 
'yclept sassafras. This wood boiled down to a 
kind of tea, and tempered with an infusion of 
milk and sugar, hath to some tastes a delicacy 
beyond the China luxury. I know not how 
thy palate may relish it ; for myself, with every 
deference to the judicious Mr. Read, who hath 
time out of mind kept open a shop (the only 
one he avers in London) for the vending of this 
" wholesome and pleasant beverage," on the 
south side of Fleet-street, as thou approachest 
Bridge-street — the only Salopian house — I have 
never yet adventured to dip my own particular 
lip in a basin of his commended ingredients 
— a cautious premonition to the olfactories 
constantly whispering to me, that my stomach 
must infallibly, with all due courtesy, decline 
it. Yet I have seen palates, otherwise not 
uninstructed in dietetical elegancies, sup it up 
with avidity. 

I know not by what particular conformation 
of the organ it happens, but I have always 
found that this composition is surprisingly 
gratifying to the palate of a young chimney- 
sweeper — whether the oily particles (sassafras 
is slightly oleaginous) do attenuate and soften 
the fuliginous concretions, which are some- 
times found (in dissections) to adhere to the 
roof of the mouth in these unfledged practi- 
tioners ; or whether Nature, sensible that she 
had mingled too much of bitter wood in the lot 
of these raw victims, caused to grow out of the 
earth her sassafras for a sweet lenitive — but 
so it is, that no possible taste or odour to the 
senses of a young chimney-sweeper can convey 
a delicate excitement comparable to this mix- 
ture. Being penniless, they will jet hang 



THE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS. 



their black heads over the ascending steam, to 
gratify one sense if possible, seemingly no less 
pleased than those domestic animals — cats — 
when they purr over a new-found sprig of 
valerian. There is something more in these 
sympathies than philosophy can inculcate. 

Now albeit Mr. Read boasteth, not without 
reason, that his is the only Salopian house ; yet 
be it known to thee, reader — if thou art one 
who keepest what are called good hours, thou 
art haply ignorant of the fact — he hath a race 
of industrious imitators, who from stalls, and 
under open sky, dispense the same savoury 
mess to humbler customers, at that dead time 
of the dawn, when (as extremes meet) the 
rake, reeling home from his midnight cups, 
and the hard-handed artisan leaving his bed to 
resume the premature labours of the day, 
jostle, not unfrequently to the manifest dis- 
concerting of the former, for the honours of 
the pavement. It is the time when, in sum- 
mer, between the expired and the not yet 
relumined kitchen-fires, the kennels of our 
fair metropolis give forth their least satis- 
factory odours. The rake, who wisheth to 
dissipate his o'er-night vapours in more grateful 
colfee, curses the ungenial fume, as he passeth ; 
but the artisan stops to taste, and blesses the 
fragrant breakfast. 

This is saloop — the precocious herb-woman's 
darling — the delight of the early gardener, 
who transports his smoking cabbages by break 
of day from Hammersmith to Covent-garden's 
famed piazzas — the delight, and oh ! I fear, 
too often the envy, of the unpennied sweep. 
Him shouldst thou haply encounter, with his 
dim visage pendent over the grateful steam, 
regale him with a sumptuous basin (it will 
cost thee but three-halfpennies) and a slice 
of delicate bread and butter (an added half- 
penny) — so may thy culinary fires, eased of 
the o'er-charged secretions from thy worse- 
placed hospitalities, curl up a lighter volume 
to the welkin — so may the descending soot 
never taint thy costly well-ingredienced soups 
— nor the odious cry, quick-reaching from 
street to street, of the fired chimney, invite 
the rattling engines from ten adjacent parishes, 
to disturb for a casual scintillation thy peace 
and pocket ! 

I am by nature extremely susceptible of 
street affronts ; the jeers and taunts of the 



populace ; the low-bred triumph they display 
over the casual trip, or splashed stocking, of a 
gentleman. Yet can I endure the jocularity 
of a young sweep with something more than 
forgiveness. — In the last winter but one, pacing 
along Cheapside with my accustomed precipi- 
tation when I walk westward, a treacherous 
slide brought me upon my back in an instant. 
I scrambled up with pain and shame enough 
— yet outwardly trying to face it down, as if 
nothing had happened — when the roguish grin 
of one of these young wits encountered me. 
There he stood, pointing me out with his dusky 
finger to the mob, and to a poor woman (I sup- 
pose his mother) in particular, till the tears 
for the exquisiteness of the fun (so he thought 
it) worked themselves out at the corners of 
his poor red eyes, red from many a previous 
weeping, and soot-inflamed, yet twinkling 
through all with such a joy, snatched out of 

desolation, that Hogarth But Hogarth 

has got him already (how could he miss him?) 
in the March to Finchley, grinning at the pye- 

man there he stood, as he stands in the 

picture, irremovable, as if the jest was to last 
for ever — with such a maximum of glee, and 
minimum of mischief, in his mirth— for the 
grin of a genuine sweep hath absolutely no 
malice in it — that I could have been content, 
if the honour of a gentleman might endure it, 
to have remained his but and his mockery 
till midnight. 

I am by theory obdurate to the seductive- 
ness of what are called a fine set of teeth. 
Every pair of rosy lips (the ladies must pardon 
me.) is a casket presumably holding such jewels ; 
but, methinks, they should take leave to "air" 
them as frugally as possible. The fine lady, 
or fine gentleman, who show me their teeth, 
show me bones. Yet must I confess, that from 
the mouth of a true sweep a display (even to 
ostentation) of those white and shining ossifi- 
cations, strikes me as as an agreeable anomaly 
in manners, and an allowable piece of foppery. 
It is, as when 

A sable cloud 
Turns forth her silver lining on the night. 

It is like some remnant of gentry not quite 
extinct ; a badge of better days ; a hint of 
nobility : — and, doubtless, under the obscuring 
darkness and double night of their forlorn dis- 
guisement, oftentimes lurketh good blood, and 



70 



ELIA. 



gentle conditions, derived from lost ancestry, 
and a lapsed pedigree. The premature ap- 
prenticements of these tender victims give 
but too much encouragement, I fear, to clan- 
destine and almost infantile abductions ; the 
seeds of civility and true courtesy, so often 
discernible in these young grafts (not other- 
wise to be accounted for) plainly hint at some 
forced adoptions ; many noble Rachels mourn- 
ing for their children, even in our days, coun- 
tenance the fact ; the tales of fairy-spiriting 
may shadow a lamentable verity, and the 
recovery of the young Montagu be but a 
solitary instance of good fortune out of many 
irreparable and hopeless def Rations. 

In one of th^e state-beds at Arundel Castle, 
a few years since — under a ducal canopy — 
(that seat of the Howards is an object of 
curiosity to visiters, chiefly for its beds, in 
which the late duke was especially a connois- 
seur) — encircled with curtains of delicatest 
crimson, with starry coronets inwoven — folded 
between a pair of sheets whiter and softer 
than the lap where Venus lulled Ascanius — 
was discovered by chance, after all methods 
of search had failed, at noon-day, fast asleep, 
a lost chimney-sweeper. The little creature, 
having somehow confounded his passage among 
the intricacies of those lordly chimneys, by 
some unknown aperture had alighted upon 
this magnificent chamber ; and, tired with his 
tedious explorations, was unable to resist the 
delicious invitement to repose, which he there 
saw exhibited ; so creeping between the sheets 
very quietly, laid his black head upon the 
pillow, and slept like a young Howard. 

Such io the account given to the visiters at 
the Castle. — But I cannot help seeming to 
perceive a confirmation of what I have just 
hinted at in this story. A high instinct was 
at work in the case, or I am mistaken. Is it 
probable that a poor child of that description, 
with whatever weariness he might be visited, 
would have ventured, under such a penalty as 
he would be taught to expect, to uncover the 
sheets of a Duke's bed, and deliberately to lay 
himself down between them, when the rug, or 
the carpet, presented an obvious couch, still 
far above his pretensions— is this probable, I 
would ask, if the great power of nature, which 
I contend for, had not been manifested within 
him, prompting to the adventure ? Doubtless 



this young nobleman (for such my mind mis- 
gives me that he must be) was allured by some 
memory, not amounting to full consciousness, 
of his condition in infancy, when he was used 
to be lapped by his mother, or his nurse, in just 
such sheets as he there found, into which he 
was now but creeping back as into his proper 
incunabula, and resting-place. — By no other 
theory than by this sentiment of a pre-existent 
state (as I may call it), can I explain a deed 
so venturous, and, indeed, upon ; any other 
system, so indecorous, in this tender, but un- 
seasonable, sleeper. 

My pleasant friend Jem White was so 
impressed with a belief of metamorphoses like 
this frequently taking place, that in some sort 
to reverse the wrongs of fortune in these poor 
changelings, he instituted an annual feast of 
chimney-sweepers, at which it was his pleasure 
to officiate as host and waiter. It was a solemn 
supper held in Smithfield, upon the yearly 
return of the fair of St. Bartholomew. Cards 
were issued a week before to the master-sweeps 
in and about the metropolis, confining the in 
vitation to their younger fry. Now and then 
an elderly stripling would get in among us, 
and be good-naturedly winked at ; but our 
main body were infantry. One unfortunate 
wight, indeed, who, relying upon his dusky 
suit, had intruded himself into our party, but 
by tokens was providentially discovered in 
time to be no chimney-sweeper, (all is not 
soot which looks so,) was quoited out of 
the presence with universal indignation, as 
not having on the wedding garment ; but in 
general the greatest harmony prevailed. The 
place chosen was a convenient spot among the 
pens, at the nor.th side of the fair, not so far 
distant as to be impervious to the agreeable 
hubbub of that vanity ; but remote enough not 
to be obvious to the interruption of every 
gaping spectator in it. The guests assembled 
about seven. In those little temporary parlours 
three tables were spread with napery, not so 
fine as substantial, and at every board a comely 
hostess presided with her pan of hissing sausages. 
The nostrils of the young rogues dilated at the 
savour. James White, as head waiter, had 
charge of the first table ; and myself, with 
our trusty companion Bigod, ordinarily minis- 
tered to the other two. There was clambering 
and jostling, you may be sure, who should get 



A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OF BEGGARS. 



71 



at the first table — for Rochester in his maddest 
days could not have done the humours of the 
scene with more spirit than my friend. After 
some general expression of thanks for the 
honour the company had done him, his in- 
augural ceremony was to clasp the greasy 
waist of old dame Ursula (the fattest of the 
three), that stood frying and fretting, half- 
blessing, half-cursing "the gentleman," and 
imprint upon her chaste lips a tender salute, 
whereat the universal host would set up a 
shout that tore the concave, while hundreds 
of grinning teeth startled the night with their 
brightness. it was a pleasure to see the 
sable younkers lick in the unctuous meat, with 
his more unctuous sayings — how he would fit 
the tit-bits to the puny mouths, reserving the 
lengthier links for the seniors — how he would 
intercept a morsel even in the jaws of some 
young desperado, declaring it "must to the 
pan again to be browned, for it was not fit for 
a gentleman's eating" — how he would recom- 
mend this slice of white bread, or that piece 
of kissing-crust, to a tender juvenile, advising 
them all to have a care of cracking their teeth, 
which were their best patrimony, — how gen- 
teelly he would deal about the small ale, as if 
it were wine, naming the brewer, and protest- 
ing, if it were not good, he should lose their 



custom ; with a special recommendation to 
wipe the lip before drinking. Then we had 
our toasts — "The King," — "the Cloth,"— 
which, whether they understood or not, was 
equally diverting and flattering ; — and for a 
crowning sentiment, which never failed, " May 
the Brush supersede the Laurel ! " All these, 
and fifty other fancies, which were rather felt 
than comprehended by his guests, would he 
utter, standing upon tables, and prefacing every 
sentiment with a " Gentlemen, give me leave 
to propose so and so," which was a prodigious 
comfort to those young orphans ; every now 
and then stuffing into his mouth (for it did 
not do to be squeamish on these occasions) in- 
discriminate pieces of those reeking sausages, 
which pleased them mightily, and was the 
savouriest part, you may believe, of the enter- 
tainment. 

Golden lads and lasses must, 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust — 

James White is extinct, and with him these 
suppers have long ceased. He carried away 
with him half the fun of the world when he 
died — of my world at least. His old clients 
look for him among the pens ; and, missing 
him, reproach the altered feast of St. Bar- 
tholomew, and the glory of Smithfield departed 
for ever. 



A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OF BEGGARS 



IN THE METROPOLIS. 



The all-sweeping besom of societarian re- 
formation — your only modern Alcides' club to 
rid the time of its abuses — is uplift with many- 
handed sway to extirpate the last fluttering 
tatters of the bugbear Mendicity from the 
metropolis. Scrips, wallets, bags — staves^ 
dogs, and crutches — the whole mendicant 
fraternity with all their baggage, are fast post- 
ing out of the purlieus of this eleventh per- 
secution. From the crowded crossing, from 
the corners of streets and turnings of alleys, 
the parting Genius of Beggary is " with sighing 
sent." 

I do not approve of this wholesale going to 



I work, this impertinent crusado, or helium ad 

exterminationem, proclaimed against a species. 

• Much good might be sucked from these 



They were the oldest and the honourablest 
form of pauperism. Their appeals were to 
our common nature ; less revolting to an in- 
genuous mind than to be a suppliant to the 
particular humours or caprice of any fellow- 
creature, or set of fellow-creatures, parochial 
or societarian. Theirs were the only rates 
uninvidious in the levy, ungrudged in the 
assessment. 

There was a dignity springing from the very 



ELIA. 



depth of their desolation ; as to be naked is to 
be so much nearer to the being a man, than to 
go in livery. 

The greatest spirits have felt this in their 
reverses ; and when Dionysius from king 
turned schoolmaster, do we feel anything 
towards him but contempt ? Could Vandyke 
have made a picture of him, swaying a ferula 
for a sceptre, which would have affected our 
minds with the same heroic pity, the same 
compassionate admiration, with which we 
regard his Belisarius begging for an oboluml 
Would the moral have been more graceful, 
more pathetic ? 

The Blind Beggar in the legend — the father 
of pretty Bessy — whose story doggrel rhymes 
and ale-house signs cannot so degrade or at- 
tenuate, but that some sparks of a lustrous 
spirit will shine through the disguisements — 
this noble Earl of Cornwall (as indeed he was) 
and memorable sport of fortune, fleeing from 
the unjust sentence of his liege lord, stript of 
all, and seated on the flowering green of 
Bethnal, with his more fresh and springing 
daughter by his side, illumining his rags and 
his beggary — would the child and parent have 
cut a better figure, doing the honours of a 
counter, or expiating their fallen condition 
upon the three-foot eminence of some semp- 
stering shop-board ? 

In tale or history your Beggar is ever the 
just antipode to your King. The poets and 
romancical writers, (as dear Margaret New- 
castle would call them,) when they would most 
sharply and feelingly paint a reverse of for- 
tune, never stop till they have brought down 
their hero in good earnest to rags and the 
wallet. The depth of the descent illustrates 
the height he falls from. There is no medium 
which can be presented to the imagination 
without offence. There is no breaking the fall. 
Lear, thrown from his palace, must divest him 
of his garments, till he answer "mere nature ;" 
and Cresseid, fallen from a prince's love, must 
extend her pale arms, pale with other white- 
ness than of beauty, supplicating lazar alms 
with bell and clap-dish. 

The Lucian wits knew this very well ; and, 
with a converse policy, when they would ex- 
press scorn of greatness without the pity, they 
show us an Alexander in the shades cobbling 
shoes, or a Semiramis getting up foul linen. 



How would it sound in song, that a great 
monarch had declined his affections upon the 
daughter of a baker ! yet do we feel the 
imagination at all violated when we read the 
"true ballad," where King Cophetua woos 
the beggar maid ? 

Pauperism, pauper, poor man, are expres- 
sions of pity, but pity alloyed with contempt. 
No one properly contemns a beggar. Poverty 
is a comparative thing, and each degree of it 
is mocked by its " neighbour grice." Its poor 
rents and comings-in are soon summed up and 
told. Its pretences to property are almost 
ludicrous. Its pitiful attempts to save excite 
a smile. Every scornful companion can weigh 
his trifle-bigger purse against it. Poor man 
reproaches poor man in the streets with impo- 
litic mention of his condition, his own being a 
shade better, while the rich pass by and jeer 
at both. No rascally comparative insults a 
Beggar, or thinks of weighing purses with him. 
He is not in the scale of comparison. He is 
not under the measure of property. He con- 
fessedly hath none, any more than a dog or a 
sheep. No one twitteth him with ostentation 
above his means. No one accuses him of pride, 
or upbraideth him with mock humility. None 
jostle with him for the wall, or pick quarrels 
for precedency. No wealthy neighbour seeketh 
to eject him from his tenement. No man sues 
him. No man goes to law with him. If I 
were not the independent gentleman that I 
am, rather than I would be a retainer to the 
great, a led captain, or a poor relation, I would 
choose, out of the delicacy and true greatness 
of my mind, to be a Beggar. 

Rags, which are the reproach of poverty, are 
the Beggar's robes, and graceful insignia of his 
profession, his tenure, his full dress, the suit in 
which he is expected to show himself in public 
He is never out of the fashion, or limpeth 
awkwardly behind it. He is not required to 
put on court mourning. He weareth all colours, 
fearing none. His costume hath undergone 
less change than the Quaker's. He is the only 
man in the universe who is not obliged to 
study appearances. The ups and downs of the 
world concern him no longer. He alone con- 
tinueth in one stay. The price of stock or land 
affecteth him not. The fluctuations of agri- 
cultural or commercial prosperity touch him 
not, or at worst but change his customers. 



A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OF BEGGARS. 



73 



He is not expected to become bail or surety 
for any one. No man troubleth him with 
questioning his religion or politics. He is the 
only free man in the universe. 

The Mendicants of this great city were so 
many of her sights, her lions. I can no more 
spare them than I could the Cries of London. 
No corner of a street is complete without them. 
They are as indispensable as the Ballad Singer ; 
and in their picturesque attire as ornamental 
as the signs of old London. They were the 
standing morals, emblems, mementos, dial- 
mottos., the spital sermons, the books for chil- 
dren, the salutary checks and pauses to the 
high and rushing tide of greasy citizenry — 



Look 



Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there. 

Above all, those old blind Tobits that used to 
line the wall of Lincoln's-Inn Garden, before 
modern fastidiousness had expelled them, cast- 
ing up their ruined orbs to catch a ray of pity, 
and (if possible) of light, with their faithful 
Dog Guide at their feet, — whither are they fled? 
or into what corners blind as themselves, have 
they been driven, out of the wholesome air and 
sun-warmth ? immersed between four walls, 
in what withering poor-house do they endure 
the penalty of double-darkness, where the 
chink of the dropt half -penny no more consoles 
their forlorn bereavement, far from the sound 
of the cheerful and hope-stirring tread of the 
passenger ? Where hang their useless staves ? 
and who will farm their dogs ? — Have the over- 
seers of St. L caused them to be shot ? or 

were they tied up in sacks, and dropt into the 

Thames, at the suggestion of B , the mild 

rector of ? 

Well fare the soul of unfastidious Vincent 
Bourne, most classical, and at the same time, 
most English of the Latinists !—who has treated 
of this human and quadrupedal alliance, this 
dog and man friendship, in the sweetest of his 
poems, the Epitaphium in Canem, or, Dog's 
Epitaph. Reader, peruse it ; and say, if cus- 
tomary sights, which could call up such gentle 
poetry as this, were of a nature to do more 
harm or good to the moral sense of the pas- 
sengers through the daily thoroughfares of a 
vast and busy metropolis. 
Pauperis hie Iri requiesco Lycisous, herilis, 
Dam vixi, tutela vigil columenque senectae, 
Dux caeco fidus : nee, me ducente, solebat, 



Praetenso hinc atque hinc baculo, per iniqua locorum 
Incertam explorare viam ; sed fila secutus, 
Quae dubios regerent passus, vestigia tuta 
Fixit inoffenso gressu ; gelidumque sedile 
In nudo nactus saxo, qua prastereuntium 
Unda frequens confluxit, ibi miserisque tenebras 
Lamentis, noctemque oculis ploravit obortam. 
Ploravit nee frustra ; obolum dedit alter et alter, 
Queis corda et mentem indiderat natura benignam. 
Ad latus interea jacui sopitus herile, 
Vel mediis vigil in somnis ; ad herilia jussa 
Auresque atque animum arrectus, seu frustula amice 
Porrexit sociasque dapes, seu longa diei 
Tasdia perpessus, reditum sub nocte parabat. 
Hi mores, haec vita fuit, dum fata sinebant, 
Dum neque languebam morbis, nee inerte senecta ; 
Quas tandem obrepsit, veterique satellite caecum 
Orbavit dominum : prisci sed gratia facti 
Ne tota intereat, longos delecta per annos, 
Exiguum nunc Irus tumulum de cespite fecit, 
Etsi inopis, non ingratae, munuscula dextrae ; 
Carmine signavitque brevi, dominumque canemque 
Quod memoret, fidumque canem dominumque benignuni. 

Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie, 

That wont to tend my old blind master's steps, 

His guide and guard : nor, while my service lasted, 

Had he occasion for that staff, with which 

He now goes picking out his path in fear 

Over the highways and crossings ; but would plant 

Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, 

A firm foot forward still, till he had reach 'd 

His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide 

Of passers by in thickest confluence fiow'd : 

To whom with loud and passionate laments 

From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd. 

Nor wail'd to all in vain : some here and there, 

The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave. 

I meantime at his feet obsequious slept ; 

Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear 

Prick'd up at his least motion ; to receive 

At his kind hand my customary crumbs, 

And common portion in his feast of scraps ; 

Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent 

With our long day and tedious beggary. 

These were my manners, this my way of life, 
Till age and slow disease me overtook, 
And sever 'd from my sightless master's side. 
But lest the grace of so good deeds should die, 
Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost, 
This slender tomb of turf hath Irus reared, 
Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand, 
And with short verse inscribed it, to attest, 
In long and lasting union to attest, 
The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog. 

These dim eyes have in vain explored for 

some months past a well-known figure, or part 

of the figure of a man, who used to glide his 

| comely upper half over the pavements of 



74 



ELIA. 



London, wheeling along with most ingenious 
celerity upon a machine of wood ; a spectacle 
to natives, to foreigners, and to children. He 
was of a robust make, with a florid sailor-like 
complexion, and his head was bare to the storm 
and sunshine. He was a natural curiosity, a 
speculation to the scientific, a prodigy to the 
simple. The infant woidd stare at the mighty 
man brought down to his own level. The 
common cripple would despise his own pusil- 
lanimity, viewing the hale stoutness, and hearty 
heart, of this half-limbed giant. Few but must 
have noticed him ; for the accident, which 
brought him low, took place during the riots of 
1780, and he has been a groundling so long. 
He seemed earth-born, an Antaeus, and to 
suck in fresh vigour from the soil which he 
neighboured. He was a grand fragment ; as 
good as an Elgin marble. The nature, which 
should have recruited his reft legs and thighs, was 
not lost, but only retired into his upper parts, 
and he was half a Hercules. I heard a tre- 
mendous voice thundering and growling, as 
before an earthquake, and casting down my 
eyes, it was this mandrake reviling a steed 
that had started at his portentous appearance. 
He seemed to want but his just stature to have 
rent the offending quadruped in shivers. He 
was as the man-part of a centaur, from which 
the horse-half had been cloven in some dire 
Lapithan controversy. He moved on, as if he 
could have made shift with yet half of the body- 
portion which was left him. The os sublime 
was not wanting ; and he threw out yet a jolly 
countenance upon the heavens. Forty-and-two- 
years had he driven this out-of-door trade, 
and now that his hair is grizzled in the service, 
but his good spirits no way impaired, because 
he is not content to exchange his free air and 
exercise for the restraints of a poor-house, he 
is expiating his contumacy in one of those 
houses (ironically christened) of Correction. 

Was a daily spectacle like this to be deemed 
a nuisance, which called for legal interference 
to remove ? or not rather a salutary and a 
touching object, to the passers-by in a great 
city ? Among her shows, her museums, 
and supplies for ever-gaping curiosity (and 
what else but an accumulation of sights — end- 
less sights — is a great city ; or for what else is 
it desirable?) was there not room for one Lusus 
(not Naturce, indeed, but) Accidentium ? What 



if in forty-and-two years' going about, the man 
had scraped together enough to give a portion 
to his child, (as the rumour ran) of a few 
hundreds— whom had he injured ? — whom had 
he imposed upon ? The contributors had en- 
joyed their sight for their pennies. What if 
after being exposed all day to the heats, the 
rains, and the frosts of heaven— shuffling his 
ungainly trunk along in an elaborate and pain- 
ful motion — he was enabled to retire at night 
to enjoy himself at a club of his fellow cripples 
over a dish of hot meat and vegetables, as the 
charge was gravely brought against him by a 
clergyman deposing before a House of Com- 
mons' Committee — was this, or was his truly 
paternal consideration, which (if a fact) de- 
served a statue rather than a whipping-post, 
and is inconsistent at least with the exaggeration 
of nocturnal orgies which he has been slandered 
with — a reason that he should be deprived of 
his chosen, harmless, nay edifying, way of life, 
and be committed in hoary age for a sturdy 
vagabond ? — 

There was a Yorick once, whom it would 
not have shamed to have sate down at the crip- 
ples' feast, and to have thrown in his benedic- 
tion, ay, and his mite too, for a companionable 
symbol. " Age, thou hast lost thy breed."— 

Half of these stories about the prodigious 
fortunes made by begging are (I verily believe) 
misers' calumnies. One was much talked of 
in the public papers some time since, and the 
usual charitable inferences deduced. A clerk 
in the Bank was surprised with the announce- 
ment of a five-hundred-pound legacy left him 
by a person whose name he was a stranger to. 
It seems that in his daily morning walks from 
Peckham (or some village thereabouts) where 
he lived, to his office, it had been his practice 
for the last twenty years to drop his halfpenny 
duly into the hat of some blind Bartimeus, 
that sate begging alms by the way-side in the 
Borough. The good old beggar recognised his 
daily benefactor by the voice only ; and, when 
he died, left all the amassings of his alms (that 
had been half a century perhaps in the accu- 
mulating) to his old Bank friend. Was this a 
story to purse up people's hearts, and pennies, 
against giving an alms to the blind ? — or not 
rather a beautiful moral of well-directed cha- 
rity on the one part, and noble gratitude upon 
the other ? 



A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG. 



75 



I sometimes wish I had been that Bank 
clerk. 

J seem to remember a poor old grateful kind 
of creature, blinking, and looking up with his 
no eyes in the sun — 

Is it possible I could have steeled my purse 
against him ? 

Perhaps I had no small change. 

Reader, do not be frightened at the hard 
words, imposition, imposture — give, and ask no 
questions. Cast thy bread upon the waters. 
Some have unawares (like this Bank clerk) 
entertained angels. 

Shut not thy purse-strings always against 
painted distress. Act a charity sometimes. 
When a poor creature (outwardly and visibly 



such) comes before thee, do not stay to inquire 
whether the " seven small children," in whose 
name he implores thy assistance, have a veri- 
table existence. Rake not into the bowels of 
unwelcome truth, to save a halfpenny. It is 
good to believe him. If he be not all that he 
pretendeth, give, and under a personate father 
of a family, think (if thou pleasest) that thou hast 
relieved an indigent bachelor. When they 
come with their counterfeit looks, and mump- 
ing tones, think them players. You pay your 
money to see a comedian feign these things, 
which, concerning these poor people, thou 
canst not certainly tell whether they are 
feigned or not. 



A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG. 



Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, which 
my friend M. was obliging enough to read and 
explain to me, for the first seventy thousand 
ages ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it 
from the living animal, just as they do in 
Abyssinia to this day. This period is not 
obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius 
in the second chapter of his Mundane Muta- 
tions, where he designates a kind of golden 
age by the term Cho-fang, literally the Cooks' 
Holiday. The manuscript goes on to say, that 
the art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I 
take to be the elder brother) was accidentally 
discovered in the manner following. The 
swine-herd, Hoti, having gone out into the 
woods one morning, as his manner was, to 
collect mast for his hogs, left his cottage in the 
care of his eldest son Bo-bo, a great lubberly 
boy, who being fond of playing with fire, as 
younkers of his age commonly are, let some 
sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which 
kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over 
every part of their poor mansion, till it was 
reduced to ashes. Together with the cottage 
(a sorry antediluvian make-shift of a building, 
you may think it) what was of much more im- 
portance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, no 
less than nine in number, perished. China 
pigs have been esteemed a luxury all over the 



East, from the remotest periods that we read of. 
Bo-bo was in the utmost consternation, as you 
may think, not so much for the sake of the tene- 
ment, which his father and he could easily build 
up again with a few dry branches, and the labour 
of an hour or two, at any time, as for the loss of 
the pigs. While he was thinking what he 
should say to his father, and wringing his hands 
over the smoking remnants of one of those un- 
timely sufferers, an odour assailed his nostrils, 
unlike any scent which he had before expe- 
rienced. What could it proceed from ? — not 
from the burnt cottage — he had smelt that 
smell before — indeed this was by no means 
the first accident of the kind which had 
occurred through the negligence of this un- 
lucky young fire-brand. Much less did it 
resemble that of any known herb, weed, or 
flower. A premonitory moistening at the same 
time overflowed his nether lip. He knew not 
what to think. He next stooped down to feel 
the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. 
He burnt his fingers, and to cool them he 
applied them in his booby fashion to his mouth. 
Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had 
come away with his fingers, and for the first 
time in his life (in the world's life indeed, for 
before him no man had known it) he tasted 
— crackling ! Again he felt and fumbled at the 



16 



ELIA. 



pig. It did not burn him so much now, 
still he licked his fingers from a sort of habit. 
The truth at length broke into his slow under- 
standing, that it was the pig that smelt so, and 
the pig that tasted so delicious ; and surrender- 
ing himself up to the new-born pleasure, he 
fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the 
scorched skin with the flesh next it, and was 
cramming it down his throat in his beastly 
fashion, when his sire entered amid the smok- 
j ing rafters, armed with retributory cudgel, and 
j finding how affairs stood, began to rain blows 
I upon the young rogue's shoulders, as thick as 
I hail-stones, which Bo-bo heeded not any 
more than if they had been flies. The tick- 
ling pleasure, which he experienced in his 
lower regions, had rendered him quite callous 
to any inconveniences he might feel in those 
remote quarters. His father might lay on, but 
he could not beat him from his pig, till he had 
fairly made an end of it, when, becoming a 
little more sensible of his situation, something 
like the following dialogue ensued. 

" You graceless whelp, what have you got 
there devouring ? Is it not enough that you 
have burnt me down three houses with your 
dog's tricks, and be hanged to you ! but you 
must be eating fire, and I know not what — 
what have you got there, I say?" 

" O father, the pig, the pig ! do come and taste 
how nice the burnt pig eats." 

The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He 
cursed his son, and he cursed himself that ever 
he should beget a son that should eat burnt 

Pig- 

Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened 
since morning, soon raked out another pig, and 
fairly rending it asunder, thrust the lesser half 
by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shout- 
ing out, "Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, father, 
only taste — OLord !" — with such-like barbarous 
ejaculations, cramming all the while as if he 
would choke. 

Ho-ti trembled every joint while he grasped 
the abominable thing, wavering whether he 
should not put his son to death for an unnatural 
young monster, when the crackling scorching 
his fingers, as it had done his son's, and apply- 
ing the same remedy to them, he in his turn 
tasted some of its flavour, which, make what 
sour mouths he would for a pretence, proved 
not altogether displeasing to him. In conclu- 



sion (for the manuscript here is a little tedious) 
both father and son fairly sat down 'to the 
mess, and never left off till they had despatched 
all that remained of the litter. 

Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the 
secret escape, for the neighbours would cer- 
tainly have stoned them for a couple of abomi- 
nable wretches, who could think of improving 
upon the good meat which God had sent them. 
Nevertheless, strange stories got about. It 
was observed that Ho-ti's cottage was burnt 
down now more frequently than ever. Nothing 
but fires from this time forward. Some would 
break out in broad day, others in the night- 
time. As often as the sow farrowed, so sure 
was the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze ; and 
Ho-ti himself, which was the more remarkable, 
instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow 
more indulgent to him than ever. At length 
they were watched, the terrible mystery disco- 
vered, and father and son summoned to take 
their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable 
assize town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious 
food itself produced in court, and verdict about 
to be pronounced, when the foreman of the 
jury begged that some of the burnt pig, of 
which the culprits stood accused, might be 
handed into the box. He handled it, and they 
all handled it ; and burning their fingers, as 
Bo-bo and his father had done before them, 
and nature prompting to each of them the 
same remedy, against the face of all the facts, 
and the clearest charge which judge had ever 
given, — to the surprise of the whole court, 
townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and all present 
— without leaving the box, or any manner of 
consultation whatever, they brought in a simul- 
taneous verdict of Not Guilty. 

The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked 
at the manifest iniquity of the decision : and 
when the court was dismissed, went privily, 
and bought Up all the pigs that could be had 
for love or money. In a few days liis Lord- 
ship's town-house was observed to be on fire. 
The thing took wing, and now there was nothing 
to be seen but fire in every direction. Fuel 
and pigs grew enormously dear all over the 
district. The insurance-offices one and all 
shut up shop. People built slighter and slighter 
every day, until it was feared that the very 
science of architecture would in no long time 
be lost to the world. Thus this custom of 



A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG. 



77 



firing houses continued, till in process of time, 
says my manuscript, a sage arose, like our 
Locke, who made a discovery, that the flesh of 
swine, or indeed of any other animal, might 
be cooked (burnt, as they called it) without the 
necessity of consuming a whole house to dress 
it. Then first began the rude form of a grid- 
iron. Roasting by the string or spit came in a 
century or two later, I forget in whose dynasty. 
By such slow degrees, concludes the manu- 
script, do the most useful, and seemingly the 
most obvious arts, make their way among 
mankind 

Without placing too implicit faith in the 
account above given, it must be agreed, that if 
a worthy pretext for so dangerous an experi- 
ment as setting houses on fire (especially in 
these days) could be assigned in favour of any 
culinary object, that pretext and excuse might 
be found in roast pig. 

Of all the delicacies in the whole mundus 
edibilis, I will maintain it to be the most delicate 
— princeps obsoniorum. 

I speak not of your grown porkers — things 
between pig and pork — those hobbydehoys — 
but a young and tender suckling — under a 
moon old— guiltless as yet of the sty — with no 
original speck of the amor immunditioe, the 
hereditary failing of the first parent, yet mani- 
fest — his voice as yet not broken, but some- 
thing between a childish treble and a grumble 
— the mild forerunner, or prceludium of a grunt. 

He must be roasted. I am not ignorant that 
our ancestors ate them seethed, or boiled — but 
what a sacrifice of the exterior tegument ! 

There is no flavour comparable, I will con- 
tend, to that of the crisp, tawny, well- watched, 
not over-roasted, crackling, as it is well called — 
the very teeth are invited to their share of 
the pleasure at this banquet in overcoming the 
coy, brittle resistance — with the adhesive 
oleaginous — call it not fat ! but an indefin- 
able sweetness growing up to it — the tender 
blossoming of fat — fat cropped in the bud — 
taken in the shoot — in the first innocence — 
the cream and quintessence of the child-pig's 

yet pure food the lean, no lean, but a kind 

of animal manna — or, rather, fat and lean (if 
it must be so) so blended and running into 
each other, that both together make but one 
ambrosian result, or common substance. 

Behold him, while he is " doing" — it seemeth 



rather a refreshing warmth, than a scorching 
heat, that he is so passive to. How equably he 
twirleth round the string ! — Now he is just 
done. To see the extreme sensibility of that 
tender age ! he hath wept out his pretty eyes — 
radiant jellies — shooting stars. — 

See him in the dish, his second cradle, how 
meek he lieth ! — wouldst thou have had this 
innocent grow up to the grossness and indo- 
cility which too often accompany maturer 
swinehood ? Ten to one he would have proved 
a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate, disagreeable 
animal — wallowing in all manner of filthy con- 
versation — from these sins he is happily 
snatched away — 

Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, 

Death came with timely care — 

his memory is odoriferous — no clown curseth, 
while his stomach half rejecteth, the rank 
bacon — no coalheaver bolteth him in reeking 
sausages — he hath a fair sepulchre in the grate- 
ful stomach of the judicious epicure — and for 
such a tomb might be content to die. 

He is the best of sapors. Pine-apple is 
great. She is indeed almost too transcendant 
— a delight, if not sinful, yet so like to sinning 
that really a tender-conscienced person would 
do well to pause — too ravishing for mortal taste, 
she woundeth and excoriateth the lips that 
approach her — -like lovers' kisses, she biteth — 
she is a pleasure bordering on pain from the 
fierceness and insanity of her relish — but she 
stoppeth at the palate — she meddleth not with 
the appetite — and the coarsest hunger might 
barter her consistently for a mutton chop. 

Pig — let me speak his praise — is no less pro- 
vocative of the appetite, than he is satisfactory 
to the criticalness of the censorious palate. 
The strong man may batten on him, and the 
weakling refuseth not his mild juices. 

Unlike to mankind's mixed characters, a 
bundle of virtues and vices, inexplicably inter- 
twisted, and not to be unravelled without 
hazard, he is — good throughout. No part of 
him is better or worse than another. He 
helpeth, as far as his little means extend, all 
around. He is the least envious of banquets. 
He is all neighbours' fare. 

I am one of those, who freely and ungrudgingly 
impart a share of the good things of this life 
which fall to their lot (few as mine are in this 
kind) to a friend. I protest I take as great an 



78 



ELIA. 



interest in my friend's pleasures, his relishes? 
and proper satisfactions, as in mine own. "Pre- 
sents," I often say, " endear Absents." Hares, 
pheasants, partridges,snipes,barn-door chickens 
(those "tame villatic fowl"), capons, plovers, 
brawn, barrels of oysters, I dispense as freely 
as I receive them. I love to taste them, as it 
were, upon the tongue of my friend. But a 
stop must be put somewhere. One would not, 
like Lear, "give everything." I make my 
stand upon pig. Methinks it is an ingratitude 
to the Giver of all good flavours, to extra-domi- 
ciliate, or send out of the house, slightingly, 
(under pretext of friendship, or . I know not 
what) a blessing so particularly adapted, pre- 
destined, I may say, to my individual palate — 
It argues an insensibility. 

I remember a touch of conscience in this 
kind at school. My good old aunt, who never 
parted from me at the end of a holiday without 
stuffing a sweetmeat, or some nice thing, into 
my pocket, had dismissed me one evening with 
a smoking plum-cake, fresh from the oven. 
In my way to school (it was over London bridge) 
a grey-headed old beggar saluted me (I have 
no doubt, at this time of day, that he was a 
counterfeit). I had no pence to console him 
with, and in the vanity of self-denial, and the 
very coxcombry of charity, schoolboy-like, I 
made him a present of— the whole cake ! I 
walked on a little, buoyed up, as one is on such 
occasions, with a sweet soothing of self-satis- 
faction ; but before I had got to the end of the 
bridge, my better feelings returned, and I burst 
into tears, thinking how ungrateful I had been 
to my good aunt, to go and give her good gift 
away to a stranger that I had never seen before, 
and who might be a bad man for aught I knew; 
and then I thought of the pleasure my aunt 
would be taking in thinking that I — I myself, 
and not another — would eat her nice cake — 
and what should I say to her the next time I 
saw her — how naughty I was to part with her 
pretty present!— and the odour of that spicy 



cake came back upon my recollection, and the 
pleasure and the curiosity I had taken in see- 
ing her make it, and her joy when she sent it 
to the oven, and how disappointed she would 
feel that I had never had a bit of it in my mouth 
at last — and I blamed my impertinent spirit 
of alms-giving, and out-of-place hypocrisy of 
goodness ; and above all I wished never to see 
the face again of that insidious, good-for 
nothing, old grey impostor. 

Our ancestors were nice in their method of 
sacrificing these tender victims. We read of 
pigs whipt to death with something of a shock, 
as we hear of any other obsolete custom. The 
age of discipline is gone by, or it would be curious 
to inquire ( in a philosophical light merely) 
what effect this process might have towards 
intenerating and dulcifying a substance, natu- 
rally so mild and dulcet as the flesh of young 
pigs.. It looks like refining a violet. Yet we 
should be cautious, while we condemn the in- 
humanity, how we censure the wisdom of the 
practice. It might impart a gusto. — 

I remember an hypothesis, argued upon by 
the young students, when I was at St. Omer's, 
and maintained with much learning and plea- 
santry on both sides, " Whether, supposing 
that the flavour of a pig who obtained his 
death by whipping ( per flagellationem extremamj 
superadded a pleasure upon the palate of a 
man more intense than any possible suffering 
we can conceive in the animal, is man justified 
in using that method of putting the animal to 
death ?" I forget the decision. 

His sauce should be considered. Decidedly, 
a few bread crumbs, done up with his liver and 
brains, and a dash of mild sage. But banish, 
dear Mrs. Cook, I beseech you, the whole onion 
tribe. Barbecue your whole hogs to your pa- 
late, steep them in shalots, stuff them out with 
plantations of the rank and guilty garlic ; you 
cannot' poison them, or make them stronger 
than they are — but consider, he is a weakling 
— a flower. 



A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT. 



70 



A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT 



THE BEHAVIOUR OF MARRIED PEOPLE. 



As a single man, I have spent a good deal of 
my time in noting down the infirmities of 
Married People, to console myself for those 
superior pleasures, which they tell me I have 
lost by remaining as I am. 

I cannot say that the quarrels of men and 
their wives ever made any great impression 
upon me, or had much tendency to strengthen 
me in those anti-social resolutions, which I 
took up long ago upon more substantial con- 
siderations. "What oftenest offends me at the 
houses of married persons where I visit, is an 
error of quite a different description ; — it is 
that they are too loving. 

Not too loving neither : that does not explain 
my meaning. Besides, why should that offend 
me ? The very act of separating themselves 
from the rest of the world, to have the fuller 
enjoyment of each other's society, implies 
that they prefer one another to all the world. 

But what I complain of is, that they carry 
this preference so undisguisedly, they perk it 
up in the faces of us single people so shame- 
lessly, you cannot be in their company a 
moment without being made to feel, by some 
indirect hint or open avowal, that you are not 
the object of this preference. Now there are 
some things which give no offence, while im- 
plied or taken for granted merely ; but 
expressed, there is much offence in them. If 
a man were to accost the first homely-featured 
or plain-dressed young woman of his acquaint- 
ance, and tell her bluntly, that she was not 
handsome or rich enough for him, and he 
could not marry her, he would deserve to be 
kicked for his ill manners ; yet no less is im- 
plied in the fact, that having access and oppor- 
tunity of putting the question to her, he has 
never yet thought fit to do it. The young 
woman understands this as clearly as if it were 
put into words ; but no reasonable young 



woman would think of making this the ground 
of a quarrel. Just as little right have a married 
couple to tell me by speeches, and looks that 
are scarce less plain than speeches, that I am 
not the happy man, — the lady's choice. It is 
enough that I know I am not : I do not want 
this perpetual reminding. 

The display of superior knowledge or riches 
may be made sufficiently mortifying ; but these 
admit of a palliative. The knowledge which is 
brought out to insult me, may accidentally 
improve me ; and in the rich man's houses and 
pictures, — his parks and gardens, I have a 
temporary usufruct at least. But the display 
of married happiness has none of these pallia- 
tives : it is throughout pure, unrecompensed, 
unqualified insult. 

Marriage by its best title is a monopoly, and 
not of the least invidious sort. It is the cun- 
ning of most possessors of any exclusive privi- 
lege to keep their advantage as much out of 
sight as possible, that their less favoured 
neighbours, seeing little of the benefit, may the 
less be disposed to question the right. But 
these married monopolists thrust the most ob- 
noxious part of their patent into our faces. 

Nothing is to me more distasteful than that 
entire complacency and satisfaction which 
beam in the countenances of a new-married 
couple, — in that of the lady particularly : it 
tells you, that her lot is disposed of in this 
world : that you can have no hopes of her. It 
is true, I have none ; nor wishes either, 
perhaps ; but this is one of those truths which 
ought, as I said before, to be taken for granted, 
not expressed. 

The excessive airs which those people give 
themselves, founded on the ignorance of us 
unmarried people, would be more offensive if 
they were less irrational. We will allow them 
to understand the mysteries belonging to their 



80 



ELIA. 



own craft better than we, who have not had 
the happiness to be made free of the company : 
but their arrogance is not content within these 
limits. If a single person presume to offer his 
opinion in their presence, though upon the 
most indifferent subject, he is immediately 
silenced as an incompetent person. Nay, a 
young married lady of my acquaintance, who, 
the best of the jest was, had not changed her 
condition above a fortnight before, in a question 
on which I had the misfortune to differ from 
her, respecting the properest mode of breeding 
oysters for the London market, had the as- 
surance to ask with a sneer, how such an old 
Bachelor as I could pretend to know anything 
about such matters ! 

But what I have spoken of hitherto is 
nothing to the airs which these creatures give 
themselves when they come, as they generally 
do, to have children. "When I consider how 
little of a rarity children are, — that every 
street and blind alley swarms with them, — that 
the poorest people commonly have them in 
most abundance, — that there are few marriages 
that are not blest with at least one of these 
bargains, — how often they turn out ill, and 
defeat the fond hopes of their parents, taking 
to vicious courses, which end in poverty, dis- 
grace, the gallows, &c. — I cannot for my life 
tell what cause for pride there can possibly be 
in having them. If they were young phoenixes, 
indeed, that were born but one in a year, there 
might be a pretext. But when they are so 
common 

I do not advert to the insolent merit which 
they assume with their husbands on these occa- 
sions. Let them look to that. But why ice, 
who are not their natural-born subjects, should 
be expected to bring our spices, myrrh, and 
i ncense, — our tribute and homage of admiration, 
— I do not see. 

" Like as the arrows in the hand of the giant 
even so are the young children :" so says the 
excellent office in our Prayer-book appointed 
for the churching of women. " Happy is the 
man that hath his quiver full of them :" So 
say I ; but then don't let him discharge his 
quiver upon us that are weaponless ;— let them 
be arrows, but not to gall and stick us. I have 
generally observed that these arrows are 
double-headed : they have two forks, to be 
sure to hit with one or the other. As for 



instance, where you come into a house which 
is full of children, if you happen to take no 
notice of them (you are thinking of something 
else, perhaps, and turn a deaf ear to their 
innocent caresses), you are set down as un- 
tractable, morose, a hater of children. On the 
other hand, if you find them more than usually 
engaging, — if you are taken with their pretty 
manners, and set about in earnest to romp and 
play with them, some pretext or other is sure 
to be found for sending them out of the room : 

they are too noisy or boisterous, or Mr. 

does not like children. With one or other of 
these forks the arrow is sure to hit you. 

I could forgive their jealousy, and dispense 
with toying with their brats, if it gives them 
any pain ; but I think it unreasonable to be 
called upon to love them, where I see no occa- 
sion, — to love a whole family, perhaps, eight, 
nine, or ten, indiscriminately, — to love all 
the pretty dears, because children are so 
engaging ! 

I know there is a proverb, " Love me, love 
my dog:" that is not always so very practi- 
cable, particularly if the dog be set upon you 
to tease you or snap at you in sport. But a 
dog, or a lesser thing, — any inanimate sub- 
stance, as a keepsake, a watch or a ring, a 
tree, or the place where we last parted when 
my friend went away upon a long absence, I 
can make shift to love, because I love him, and 
anything that reminds me of him ; provided it 
be in its nature indifferent, and apt to receive 
whatever hue fancy can give it. But children 
have a real character, and an essential being 
of themselves : they are amiable or unamiable 
per se ; I must love or hate them as I see cause 
for either in their qualities. A child's nature 
is too serious a thing to admit of its being 
regarded as a mere appendage to another 
being, and to be loved or hated accordingly : 
they stand with me upon their own stock, as 
much as men and women do. Oh ! but you 
will say, sure it is an attractive age,— there is 
something in the tender years of infancy that 
of itself charms us ? That is the very reason 
why I am more nice about them. I know that 
a sweet child is the sweetest thing in nature, 
not even excepting the delicate creatures 
which bear them ; but the prettier the kind 
of a thing is, the more desirable it is that it 
should be pretty of its kind. One daisy differs 



A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT 



81 



not much from another in glory ; but a violet 
should look and smell the daintiest. — I was 
always rather squeamish in my women and 
children. 

But this is not the worst : one must be ad- 
mitted into their familiarity at least, before 
they can complain of inattention. It implies 
visits, and some kind of intercourse. But if 
the husband be a man with whom you have 
lived on a friendly footing before marriage — 
if you did not come in on the wife's side — if 
you did not sneak into the house in her train, 
but were an old friend in fast habits of inti- 
macy before their courtship was so much as 
thought on, — look about you — your tenure is 
precarious — before a twelvemonth shall roll 
over your head, you shall find your old friend 
gradually grow cool and altered towards you, 
and at last seek opportunities of breaking with 
you. I have scarce a married friend of my 
acquaintance, upon whose firm faith I can rely, 
whose friendship did not commence after the 
period of his marriage. With some limitations, 
they can endure that ; but that the good man 
should have dared to enter into a solemn 
league of friendship in which they were not 
consulted, though it happened before they 
knew him, — before they that are now man and 
wife ever met, — this is intolerable to them. 
Every long friendship, every old authentic 
intimacy, must be brought into their office to 
be new stamped with their currency, as a 
sovereign prince calls in the good old money 
that was coined in some reign before he was 
born or thought of, to be new marked and 
minted with the stamp of his authority, before 
he will let it pass current in the world. You 
may guess what luck generally befalls such 
a rusty piece of metal as I am in these new 
mintings. 

Innumerable are the ways which they take 
to insult and worm you out of their husbands' 
confidence. Laughing at all you say with a 
kind of wonder, as if you were a queer kind of 
fellow that said good things, but an oddity, is one 
of the ways ; — they have a particular kind of 
stare for the purpose ; — till at last the hus- 
band, who used to defer to your judgment, 
and would pass over some excrescences of un- 
derstanding and manner for the sake of a gene- 
ral vein of observation (not quite vulgar) which 
he perceived in you, begins to suspect whether 



you are not altogether a humorist, — a fellow 
well enough to have consorted with in his 
bachelor days, but not quite so proper to be 
introduced to ladies. This may be called the 
staring way ; and is that which has oftenest 
been put in practice against me. 

Then there is the exaggerating way, or the 
way of irony ; that is, where they find you an 
object of especial regard with their husband, 
who is not so easily to be shaken from the 
lasting attachment founded on esteem which 
he has conceived towards you, by never qua- 
lified exaggerations to cry up all that you say 
or do, till the good man, who understands well 
enough that it is all done in compliment to 
him, grows weary of the debt of gratitude 
which is due to so much candour, and by 
relaxing a little on his part, and taking down 
a peg or two in his enthusiasm, sinks at length 
to the kindly level of moderate esteem — that 
"decent affection and complacent kindness" 
towards you, where she herself can join in 
sympathy with him without much stretch and 
violence to her sincerity. 

Another way (for the ways they have to 
accomplish so desirable a purpose are infinite) 
is, with a kind of innocent simplicity, continu- 
ally to mistake what it was which first made 
their husband fond of you. If an esteem for 
something excellent in your moral character 
was that which riveted the chain which she is 
to break, upon any imaginary discovery of a 
want of poignancy in your conversation, she 
will cry, " I thought, my dear, you described 

your friend, Mr. , as a great wit ? " If, 

on the other hand, it was for some supposed 
charm in your conversation that he first grew 
to like you, and was content for this to over- 
look some trifling irregularities in your moral 
deportment, upon the first notice of any of 
these she as readily exclaims, " This, my dear, 

is your good Mr. ! " One good lady 

whom I took the liberty of expostulating with 
for not showing me quite so much respect as 
I thought due to her husband's old friend, 
had the candour to confess to me that she 

had often heard Mr. speak of me before 

marriage, and that she had conceived a great 
desire to be acquainted with me, but that the 
sight of me had very much disappointed her 
expectations ; for from her husband's repre- 
sentations of me, she had formed a notion that 



82 



ELIA. 



she was to see a fine, tall, officer-like-looking 
man (I use her very words), the very reverse 
of which proved to be the truth. This was 
candid ; and I had the civility not to ask her 
in return, how she came to pitch upon a 
standard of personal accomplishments for her 
husband's friends which differed so much from 
his own ; for my friend's dimensions as near 
as possible approximate to mine ; he standing 
five feet five in his shoes, in which I have the 
advantage of him by about half an inch ; 
and he no more than myself exhibiting any 
indications of a martial character in his air 
or countenance. 

These are some of the mortifications which 
I have encountered in the absurd attempt to 
visit at their houses. To enumerate them all 
would be a vain endeavour ; I shall therefore 
just glance at the very common impropriety 
of which married ladies are guilty, — of treating 
us -as if we were their husbands, and vice versa. 
I mean, when they use us with familiarity, 
and their husbands with ceremony. Testacea, 
for instance, kept me the other night two or 
three *hours beyond my usual time of supping, 

while she was fretting because Mr. did 

not come home, till the oysters were all spoiled, 
rather than she would be guilty of the impolite- 
ness of touching one in his absence. This was 



reversing the point of good manners : for 
ceremony is an invention to take off the uneasy 
feeling which we derive from knowing our- 
selves to be less the object of love and esteem 
with a fellow-creature than some other person 
is. It endeavours to make up, by superior 
attentions in little points, for that invidious 
preference which it is forced to deny in the 
greater. Had Testacea kept the oysters back 
for me, and withstood her husband's impor- 
tunities to go to supper, she would have acted 
according to the strict rules of propriety. I 
know no ceremony that ladies are bound to 
observe to their husbands, beyond the point 
of a modest behaviour and decorum : therefore 
I must protest against the vicarious gluttony 
of Cerasla, who at her own table sent away a 
dish of Morellas, which I was applying to with 
great good-will, to her husband at the other end 
of the table, and recommended a plate of less 
extraordinary gooseberries to my unwedded 
palate in their stead. Neither can I excuse 

the wanton affront of 

But I am weary of stringing up all my 
married acquaintance by Roman denomina- 
tions. Let them amend and change their 
manners, or I promise to record the full-length 
English of their names, to the terror of all such 
desperate offenders in future. 



ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS. 



83 



ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS. 



The casual sight of an old Play Bill, which 
I picked up the other day- — I know not by 
what chance it was preserved so long — tempts 
me to call to mind a few of the Players, who 
make the principal figure in it. It presents 
the cast of parts in the Twelfth Night, at the 
old Drury-lane Theatre two-and-thirty years 
ago. There is something very touching in 
these old remembrances. They make us think 
how we once used to read a Play Bill — not, as 
now perad venture, singling out a favourite 
performer, and casting a negligent eye over 
the rest ; but spelling out every name, down 
to the very mutes and servants of the scene ; 
— when it was a matter of no small moment 
to us whether Whitfield, or Packer, took the 
part of Fabian ; when Benson, and Burton, and 
Phillimore — names of small account — had an 
importance, beyond what we can be content 
to attribute now to the time's best actors. — 
" Orsino, by Mr. Barrymore." — "What a full 
Shakspearian sound it carries ! how fresh to 
memory arise the image, and the manner, of 
the gentle actor ! 

Those who have only seen Mrs. Jordan 
within the last ten or fifteen years, can have 
no adequate notion of her performance of such 
parts as Ophelia ; Helena, in All's Well that 
Ends Well ; and Viola in this play. Her voice 
had latterly acquired a coarseness, which suited 
well enough with her Nells and Hoydens, but 
in those days it sank, with her steady melting 
eye, into the heart. Her joyous parts — in 
which her memory now chiefly lives — in her 
youth were outdone by her plaintive ones. 
There is no giving an account how she delivered 
the disguised story of her love for Orsino. It 
was no set speech, that she had foreseen, so as 
to weave it into an harmonious period, line 
necessarily following line, to make up the 
music — yet I have heard it so spoken, or rather 
read, not without its grace and beauty — but, 
when she had declared her sister's history to be 



a " blank," and that she " never told her love," 
there was a pause, as if the story had ended 
— and then the image of the "worm in the 
bud," came up as a new suggestion — and the 
heightened image of "Patience" still followed 
after that, as by some growing (and not me- 
chanical) process, thought springing up after 
thought, I would almost say, as they were 
watered by her tears. So in those fine lines — 
Write loyal cantos of contemned love — 
Hollow your name to the reverberate hills — 

there was no preparation made in the fore- 
going image for that which was to follow. She 
used no rhetoric in her passion ; or it was 
nature's own rhetoric, most legitimate then, 
when it seemed altogether without rule or 
law. 

Mrs. Powel (now Mrs. Itenard), then in the 
pride of her beauty, made an admirable Olivia. 
She was particularly excellent in her unbend- 
ing scenes in conversation with the Clown. 
I have seen some Olivias — and those very 
sensible actresses too — who in these interlocu- 
tions have seemed to set their wits at the 
jester, and to vie conceits with him in down- 
right emulation. But she used him for her 
sport, like what he was, to trifle a leisure 
sentence or two with, and then to be dismissed, 
and she to be the Great Lady still. She 
touched the imperious fantastic humour of 
the character with nicety. Her fine spacious 
person filled the scene. 

The part of Malvolio has, in my judgment, 
been so often misunderstood, and the general 
merits of the actor, who then played it, so un- 
duly appreciated, that I shall hope for pardon, 
if I am a little prolix upon these points. 

Of all the actors who flourished in my time 
— a melancholy phrase if taken aright, reader 
— Bensley had most of the swell of soul, was 
greatest in the delivery of heroic conceptions, 
the emotions consequent upon the presentment 
of a great idea to the fancy. He had the true 

G 2 



84 



ELIA. 



poetical enthusiasm — the rarest faculty among 
players. None that 1 remember possessed even 
a portion of that fine madness which he threw 
out in Hotspur's famous rant about glory, or 
the transports of the Venetian incendiary at 
the vision of the fired city. His voice had the 
dissonance, and at times the inspiriting effect, 
of the trumpet. His gait was uncouth and stiff, 
but no way embarrassed by affectation ; and 
the thorough-bred gentleman was uppermost 
in every movement. He seized the moment 
of passion with greatest truth ; like a faithful 
clock, never striking before the time ; never 
anticipating or leading you to anticipate. He 
was totally destitute of trick and artifice. He 
seemed come upon the stage to do the poet's 
message simply, and he did it with as genuine 
fidelity as the nuncios in Homer deliver the 
errands of the gods. He let the passion or 
the sentiment do its own work without prop or 
bolstering. He would have scorned to mounte- 
bank it; and betrayed none of that cleverness 
which is the bane of serious acting. For this 
reason, his Iago was the only endurable one 
which I remember to have seen. No spectator 
from his action could divine more of his artifice 
than Othello was supposed to do. His con- 
fessions in soliloquy alone put you in possession 
of the mystery. There were no by-intimations 
to make the audience fancy their own discern- 
ment so much greater than that of the Moor — 
who commonly stands like a great helpless 
mark set up for mine Ancient, and a quantity 
of barren spectators, to shoot their bolts at. 
The Iago of Bensley did not go to work so 
grossly. There was a triumphant tone about 
the character, natural to a general conscious- 
ness of power ; but none of that petty vanity 
which chuckles and cannot contain itself upon 
any little successful stroke of its knavery — as 
is common with your small villains, and green 
probationers in mischief. It did not clap or 
crow before its time. It was not a man setting 
his wits at a child, and winking all the while 
at other children who are mightily pleased at 
being let into the secret; but a consummate 
villain entrapping a noble nature into toils, 
against which no discernment was available, 
where the manner was as fathomless as the 
purpose seemed dark, and without motive. 
The part of Malvolio, in the Twelfth Night, 
was performed by Bensley, with a richness and 



a dignity, of which (to judge from some recent 
castings of that character) the very tradition 
must be worn out from the stage. No manager 
in those days would have dreamed of giving it 
to Mr. Baddeley, or Mr. Parsons : when Bensley 
was occasionally absent from the theatre, John 
Kemble thought it no derogation to succeed to 
the part. Malvolio is not essentially ludicrous. 
He becomes comic but by accident. He is 
cold, austere, repelling ; but dignified, con- 
sistent, and, for what appears, rather of an 
over-stretched morality. Maria describes him 
as a sort of Puritan ; and he might have worn 
his gold chain with honour in one of our old 
round-head families, in the service of a Lambert, 
or a Lady Fairfax. But his morality and his 
manners are misplaced in Illyria. He is 
opposed to the proper levities of the piece, and 
falls in the unequal contest. Still his pride, 
or his gravity (call it which you will), is 
inherent, and native to the man, not mock or 
affected, which latter only are the fit objects to 
excite laughter. His quality is at the best 
unlovely, but neither buffoon nor contemptible. 
His bearing is lofty, a little above his station, 
but probably not much above his deserts. "We 
see no reason why he should not have been 
brave, honourable, accomplished. His careless 
committal of the ring to the ground (which he 
was commissioned to restore to Cesario), be- 
speaks a generosity of birth and feeling. His 
dialect on all occasions is that of a gentleman, 
and a man of education. "We must not con- 
found him with the eternal old, low steward 
of comedy. He is master of the household to 
a great princess ; a dignity probably conferred 
upon him for other respects than age or length 
of service. Olivia, at the first indication of 
his supposed madness, declares that she "would 
not have him miscarry for half of her dowry." 
Does this look as if the character was meant 
to appear little or insignificant ? Once, indeed, 
she accuses him to his face — of what ? — of 
being "sick of self-love," — but with a gentle- 
ness and considerateness which could not have 
been, if she had not thought that this particular 
infirmity shaded some virtues. His rebuke to 
the knight, and his sottish revellers, is sensible 
and spirited ; and when we take into considera- 
tion the unprotected condition of his mistress, 
and strict regard with which her state of real 
or dissembled mourning would draw the eyes 



ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS. 



85 



of the world upon her house-affairs, Malvolio 
might feel the honour of the family in some 
sort in his keeping; as it appears not that 
Olivia had any more brothers, or kinsmen, to 
look to it — for Sir Toby had dropped all such 
nice respects at the buttery-hatch. That 
Malvolio was meant to be represented as 
possessing estimable qualities, the expression 
of the Duke, in his anxiety to have him recon- 
ciled, almost infers : "Pursue him, and entreat 
him to a peace." Even in his abused state of 
chains and darkness, a sort of greatness seems 
never to desert him. He argues highly and 
well with the supposed Sir Topas, and philo- 
sophises gallantly upon his straw * There 
must have been some shadow of worth about 
the man ; he must have been something more 
than a mere vapour — a thing of straw, or Jack 
in office — before Fabian and Maria could have 
ventured sending him upon a courting-errand 
to Olivia. There was some consonancy (as he 
would say) in the undertaking, or the jest 
would have been too bold even for that house 
of misrule. 

Bensley, accordingly, threw over the part 
an air of Spanish loftiness. He looked, spake, 
and moved like an old Castilian. He was 
starch, spruce, opinionated, but his superstruc- 
ture of pride seemed bottomed upon a sense 
of worth. There was something in it beyond 
the coxcomb. It was big and swelling, but 
you could not be sure that it was hollow. 
You might wish to see it taken down, but you 
felt that it was upon an elevation. He was 
magnificent from the outset; but when the 
decent sobrieties of the character began to 
give way, and the poison of self-love, in his 
conceit of the Countess's affection, gradually 
to work, you would have thought that the 
hero of La Mancha in person stood before 
you. How he went smiling to himself! with 
what ineffable carelessness would he twirl 
his gold chain! what a dream it was! you 
were infected with the illusion, and did not 
wish that it should be removed ! you had no 
room for laughter ! if an unseasonable reflec- 

* Clown. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning 
wild fowl ? 

Mai. That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit 
a bird. 

Clown. What thinkest thou of his opinion ? 

Mai. I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve of 
his opinion. 



tion of morality obtruded itself, it was a deep 
sense of the pitiable infirmity of man's nature, 
that can lay him open to such frenzies — but 
in truth you rather admired than pitied the 
lunacy while it lasted — you felt that an hour 
of such mistake was worth an age with the 
eyes open. Who would not wish to live but 
for a day in the conceit of such a lady's love 
as Olivia ? Why, the Duke would have given 
his principality but for a quarter of a minute, 
sleeping or waking, to have been so deluded. 
The man seemed to tread upon air, to taste 
manna, to walk with his head in the clouds, 
to mate Hyperion. O ! shake not the castles 
of his pride — endure yet for a season, bright 
moments of confidence — " stand still, ye watches 
of the element," that Malvolio may be still in 
fancy fair Olivia's lord ! — but fate and retribu- 
tion say no — I hear the mischievous titter of 
Maria — the witty taunts of Sir Toby — the still 
more insupportable triumph of the foolish 
knight — the counterfeit Sir Topas is unmasked 
— and "thus the whirligig of time," as the 
true clown hath it, " brings in his revenges." 
I confess that I never saw the catastrophe of 
this character, while Bensley played it, with- 
out a kind of tragic interest. There was good 
foolery too. Few now remember Dodd. What 
an Aguecheek the stage lost in him ! Love- 
grove, who came nearest to the old actors, 
revived the character some few seasons ago, 
and made it sufficiently grotesque ; but Dodd 
was it, as it came out of nature's hands. It 
might be said to remain in purls naturalibus. 
In expressing slowness of apprehension, this 
actor surpassed all others. You could see the 
first dawn of an idea stealing slowly over his 
countenance, climbing up by little and little, 
with a painful process, till it cleared up at 
last to the fulness of a twilight conception — 
its highest meridian. He seemed to keep 
back his intellect, as some have had the power 
to retard their pulsation. The balloon takes 
less time in filling, than it took to cover the 
expansion of his broad moony face over all 
its quarters with expression. A glimmer of 
understanding would appear in a corner of 
his eye, and for lack of fuel go out again. 
A part of his forehead would catch a little 
intelligence, and be a long time in communi- 
cating it to the remainder. 

I am ill at dates, but I think it is now 



86 



ELIA. 



better than five-and-twenty years ago, that 
walking in the gardens of Gray's Inn— they 
were then far finer than they are now — the 
accursed Yerulara Buildings had not en- 
croached upon all the east side of them, cut- 
ting out delicate green crankles, and shoulder- 
ing away one of two of the stately alcoves of 
the terrace — the survivor stands gaping and 
relationless as if it remembered its brother 
■ — they are still the best gardens of any of 
the Inns of Court, my beloved Temple not 
forgotten — have the gravest character, their 
aspect being altogether reverend and law- 
breathing — Bacon has left the impress of his 

foot upon their gravel walks taking my 

afternoon solace on a summer day upon the 
aforesaid terrace, a comely sad personage 
came towards me, whom, from his grave air 
and deportment, I judged to be one of the 
old Benchers of the Inn. He had a serious 
thoughtful forehead, and seemed to be in 
meditations of mortality. As I have an in- 
stinctive awe of old Benchers, I was passing 
him with that sort of subindicative token of 
respect which one is apt to demonstrate 
towards a venerable stranger, and which 
rather denotes an inclination to greet him, 
than any positive motion of the body to that 
effect — a species of humility and will- worship 
which I observe, nine times out of ten, rather 
puzzles than pleases T.he person it is offered 
to — when the face turning full upon me, 
strangely identified itself with that of Dodd. 
Upon close inspection I was not mistaken. 
But could this sad thoughtful countenance be 
the same vacant face of folly which I had 
hailed so often under circumstances of gaiety ; 
which I had never seen without a smile, or 
recognised but as the usher of mirth; that 
looked out so formally flat in Foppington, so 
frothily pert in Tattle, so impotently busy in 
Backbite ; so blankly divested of all meaning, 
or resolutely expressive of none, in Acres, in 
Fribble, and a thousand agreeable imperti- 
nences? Was this the face — full of thought 
and carefulness — that had so often divested 
itself at will of every trace of either to give 
me diversion, to clear my cloudy face for two 
or three hours at least of its furrows ? "Was 
this the face — manly, sober, intelligent — which 
I had so often despised, made mocks at, made 
merry with? The remembrance of the free- 



doms which I had taken with it came upon 
me with a reproach of insult. I could have 
asked it pardon. I thought it looked upon 
me with a sense of injury. There is some- 
thing strange as well as sad in seeing actors 
— your pleasant fellows particularly — subjected 
to and suffering the common lot ; — their for- 
tunes, their casualties, their deaths, seem to 
belong to the scene, their actions to be 
amenable to poetic justice only. We can 
hardly connect them with more awful respon- 
sibilities. The death of this fine actor took 
place shortly after this meeting. He had 
quitted the stage some months; and, as I 
learned afterwards, had been in the habit of 
resorting daily to these gardens almost to the 
day of his decease. In these serious walks 
probably he was divesting himself of many 
scenic and some real vanities — weaning him- 
self from the frivolities of the lesser and the 
greater theatre — doing gentle penance for a 
life of no very reprehensible fooleries — taking 
off by degrees the buffoon mask which he 
might feel he had worn too long — and re- 
hearsing for a more solemn cast of part. 
Dying, he " put on the weeds of Dominic *." 

If few can remember Dodd, many yet living 
will not easily forget the pleasant creature, 
who in those days enacted the part of the 
Clown to Dodd's Sir Andrew. — Richard, or 
rather Dicky Suett — for so in his life-time he 
delighted to be called, and time hath ratified 
the appellation — lieth buried on the north 
side of the cemetery of Holy Paul, to whose 
service his nonage and tender years were 
dedicated. There are who do yet remember 
him at that period — his pipe clear and harmo- 
nious. He would often speak of his chorister 
days, when he was " cherub Dicky." 

What clipped his wings, or made it expe- 

* Dodd was a man of reading, and left at his death a 
choice collection of old English literature. I should 
judge him to have been a man of wit. I know one 
instance of an impromptu which no length of study 
could have bettered. My merry friend, Jem "White, had 
seen him one evening in Aguecheek, and recognising 
Dodd the next day in Fleet Street, was irresistibly 
impelled to take off his hat and salute him as the 
identical Knight of the preceding evening with a " Save 
you, Sir Andrew." Dodd, not at all disconcerted at this 
unusual address from a stranger, with a courteous half- 
rebuking wave of the hand, put him off with an " Away, 
Fool." 



ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS. 



87 



dient that he should exchange the holy for 
the profane state; whether he had lost his 
good voice (his best recommendation to that 
office), like Sir John, "with hallooing and 
singing of anthems;" or whether he was 
adjudged to lack something, even in those 
early years, of the gravity indispensable to 
an occupation which professeth to " commerce 
with the skies " — I could never rightly learn ; 
but we find him, after the probation of a 
twelvemonth or so, reverting to a secular 
condition, and become one of us. 

I think he was not altogether of that timber 
out of which cathedral seats and sounding- 
boards are hewed. But if a glad heart — kind, 
and therefore glad — be any part of sanctity, 
then might the robe of Motley, with which 
he invested himself with so much humility 
after his deprivation, and which he wore so 
long with so much blameless satisfaction to 
himself and to the public, be accepted for a 
surplice — his white stole, and albe. 

The first fruits of his secularization was an 
engagement upon the boards of Old Drury, at 
which theatre he commenced, as I have been 
told, with adopting the manner of Parsons in 
old men's characters. At the period in which 
most of us knew him, he was no more an 
imitator than he was in any true sense him- 
self imitable. 

He was the Robin Goodfellow of the stage. 
He came in to trouble all things with a 
welcome perplexity, himself no whit troubled 
for the matter. He was known, like Puck, by 
his note — Ha! Ha! Ha! — sometimes deepening 
to Ho! Ho! Ho! with an irresistible accession, 
derived, perhaps, remotely from his ecclesias- 
tical education, foreign to his prototype of, — 
La ! Thousands of hearts yet respond to 
the chuckling La ! of Dicky Suett, brought 
back to their remembrance by the faithful 
transcript of his friend Mathews's mimicry. 
The "force of nature could no further go." 
He drolled upon the stock of these two sylla- 
bles richer than the cuckoo. 

Care, that troubles all the world, was for- 
gotten in his composition. Had he had but 
two grains (nay, half a grain) of it, he could 
never have supported himself upon those two 
spider's strings, which served him (in the latter 
part of his unmixed existence) as legs. A 
doubt or a scruple must have made him totter, 



a sigh have puffed him down ; the weight of a 
frown had staggered him, a wrinkle made him 
lose his balance. But on he went, scrambling 
upon those airy stilts of his, with Robin Good- 
fellow, "thorough brake, thorough briar," reck- 
less of a scratched face or a torn doublet. 

Shakspeare foresaw him, when he framed 
his fools and jesters. They have all the true 
Suett stamp, a loose and shambling gait, a 
slippery tongue, this last the ready midwife to 
a without-pain-delivered jest ; in words, light 
as air, venting truths deep as tiie centre ; with 
idlest rhymes tagging conceit when busiest, 
singing with Lear in the tempest, or Sir Toby 
at the buttery-hatch. 

Jack Bannister and he had the fortune to be 
more of personal favourites with the tov/n than 
any actors before or after. The difference, I 
take it, was this : — Jack was more beloved for 
his sweet, good-natured, moral pretensions. 
Dicky was more liked for his sweet, good- 
natured, no pretensions at all. Your whole 
conscience stirred with Bannister's perform- 
ance of Walter in the Children in the "Wood 
— but Dicky seemed like a thing, as Shakspeare 
says of Love, too young to know what con- 
science is. He put us into Vesta's days. Evil 
fled before him — not as from Jack, as from an 
antagonist, — but because it could not touch 
him, any more than a cannon-ball a fly. He 
was delivered from the burthen of that death ; 
and, when Death came himself, not in meta- 
phor, to fetch Dicky, it is recorded of him by 
Robert Palmer, who kindly watched his exit, 
that he received the last stroke, neither varying 
his accustomed tranquillity, nor tune, with the 
simple exclamation, worthy to have been re- 
corded in his epitaph — La ! La ! Bobby ! 

The elder Palmer (of stage-treading cele- 
brity), commonly played Sir Toby in those days ; 
but there is a solidity of wit in the jests of 
that half-Falstaff which he did not quite fill 
out. He was as much too showy as Moody 
(who sometimes took the part) was dry and 
sottish. In sock or buskin there was an air of 
swaggering gentility about Jack Palmer. He 
was a gentleman with a slight infusion of the 
footman. His brother Bob (of recenter memory), 
who was his shadow in everything while he 
lived, and dwindled into less than a shadow 
afterwards — was a gentleman with a little 
stronger infusion of the latter ingredient; that 



88 



ELIA. 



was all. It is amazing how a little of the more 
or less makes a difference in these things. 
When you saw Bobby in the Duke's Servant,* 
you said " "What a pity such a pretty fellow 
was only a servant ! " When you saw Jack 
figuring in Captain Absolute, you thought you 
could trace his promotion to some lady of 
quality who fancied the handsome fellow in his 
topknot, and had bought him a commission. 
Therefore Jack in Dick Amlet was insuperable. 
Jack had two voices, both plausible, hypo- 
critical, and insinuating ; but his secondary or 
supplemental voice still more decisively his- 
trionic than his common one. It was reserved 
for the spectator ; and the dramatis personse 
were supposed to know nothing at all about 
it. The lies of Young Wilding, and the senti- 
ments in Joseph Surface, were thus marked out 
in a sort of italics to the audience. This secret 
correspondence with the company before the 
curtain (which is the bane and death of tragedy) 
has an extremely happy effect in some kinds 
of comedy, in the more highly artificial comedy 
of Congreve or of Sheridan especially, where 
the absolute sense of reality (so indispensa- 
ble to scenes of interest) is not required, or 
would rather interfere to diminish your plea- 
sure. The fact is, you do not believe in such 
characters as Surface — the villain of artificial 
comedy — even while you read or see them. 
If you did, they would shock and not divert 
you. When Ben, in Love for Love, returns 
from sea, the following exquisite dialogue 
occurs at his first meeting with his father : — 

Sir Sampson. Thou hast been many a weary league, 
Ben, since I saw thee. 

Ben. By, ey, been ! Been far enough, an that be all.— 
Well, father, and how do all at home ? how does brother 
Dick, and brother Val ? 

Sir Sampson. Dick ! body o' me, Dick has been dead 
these two years. I writ you word when you were at Leg- 
horn. 



High Life Below Stairs. 



Ben. Mess, that's true; Marry, I had forgot. Dick's 
dead, as you say— Well, and how ?— I have a many ques- 
tions to ask you — 

Here is an instance of insensibility which in 
real life would be revolting, or rather in real 
life could not have co-existed with the warm- 
hearted temperament of the character. But 
when you read it in the spirit with which such 
playful selections and specious combinations 
rather than strict metaphrases of nature should 
be taken, or when you saw Bannister play it, 
it neither did, nor does, wound the moral sense 
at all. For what is Ben — the pleasant sailor 
which Bannister gives us — but a piece of satire 
— a creation of Congreve's fancy — a dreamy 
combination of all the accidents of a sailor's 
character — his contempt of money — his credu- 
lity to women — with that necessary estrange- 
ment from home which it is just within the 
verge of credibility to suppose might produce 
such an hallucination as is here described. 
We never think the worse of Ben for it, or 
feel it as a stain upon his character. But when 
an actor comes, and instead of the delightful 
phantom — the creature dear to half-belief — 
which Bannister exhibited — displays before 
our eyes a downright concretion of a Wapping 
sailor — a jolly warm-hearted Jack Tar — and 
nothing else — when instead of investing it with 
a delicious confusedness of the head, and a 
veering undirected goodness of purpose — he 
gives to it a downright daylight understand- 
ing, and a full consciousness of its actions ; 
thrusting forward the sensibilities of the cha- 
racter with a pretence as if it stood upon 
nothing else, and was to be judged by them 
alone — we feel the discord of the thing ; the 
scene is disturbed ; a real man has got in 
among the dramatis personae, and puts them 
out. We want the sailor turned out. We 
feel that his true place is not behind the cur- 
tain, but in the first or second gallery. 



ON THE ARTIFICIAL COMEDY OF THE LAST CENTURY. 



89 



ON THE ARTIFICIAL COMEDY OF THE LAST CENTURY. 



The artificial Comedy, or Comedy of man- 
ners, is quite extinct on our stage. Congreve 
and Farquhar show their heads once in seven 
years only, to be exploded and put down 
instantly. The times cannot bear them. Is 
it for a few wild speeches, an occasional licence 
of dialogue ? I think not altogether. The busi- 
ness of their dramatic characters will not stand 
the moral test. We screw everything up to 
that. Idle gallantry in a fiction, a dream, the 
passing pageant of an evening, startles us in 
the same way as the alarming indications of 
profligacy in a son or ward in real life should 
startle a parent or guardian. "We have no 
such middle emotions as dramatic interests 
left. "We see a stage libertine playing his 
loose pranks of two hours' duration, and of 
no after consequence, with the severe eyes 
which inspect real vices with their bearings 
upon two worlds? "We are spectators to a plot 
or intrigue (not reducible in life to the point 
of strict morality), and take it all for truth. 
"We substitute a real for a dramatic person, 
and judge him accordingly. We try him in 
our courts, from which there is no appeal to 
the dramatis personce, his peers. We have been 
spoiled with — not sentimental comedy — but a 
tyrant far more pernicious to our pleasures 
which has succeeded to it, the exclusive and 
all-devouring drama of common life ; where 
the moral point is every thing ; where, instead 
of the fictitious half-believed personages of the 
stage (the phantoms of old comedy), we recog- 
nise ourselves, our brothers, aunts, kinsfolk, 
allies, patrons, enemies, — the same as in life, — 
with an interest in what is going on so hearty 
and substantial, that we cannot afford our 
moral judgment, in its deepest and most vital 
results, to compromise or slumber for a 
moment. What is there transacting, by no 
modification is made to affect us in any other 
manner than the same events or characters 
would do in our relationships of life. We carry 
our fire-side concerns to the theatre with us. 
We do not go thither, like our ancestors, to 



I escape from the pressure of reality, so much 
as to confirm our experience of it ; to make 
assurance double, and take a bond of fate. 
We must live our toilsome lives twice over, as 
it was the mournful privilege of Ulysses to 
descend twice to the shades. All that neutral 
ground of character, which stood between 
vice and virtue ; or which in fact was indif- 
ferent to neither, where neither properly was 
called in question ; that happy breathing-place 
from the burthen of a perpetual moral ques- 
tioning — the sanctuary and quiet Alsatia of 
hunted casuistry — is broken up and disfran- 
chised, as injurious to the interests of society. 
The privileges of the place are taken away by 
law. We dare not dally with images, or names, 
of wrong. We bark like foolish dogs at sha- 
dows. We dread infection from the scenic 
representation of disorder, and fear a painted 
pustule. In our anxiety that our morality 
should not take cold, we wrap it up in a great 
blanket surtout of precaution against the breeze 
and sunshine. 

I confess for myself that (with no great 
delinquencies to answer for) I am glad for a 
season to take an airing beyond the diocese of 
the strict conscience, — not to live always in the 
precincts of the law-courts, — but now and then, 
for a dream-while or so, to imagine a world 
with no meddling restrictions — to get into re- 
cesses, whither the hunter cannot follow me — 
— . Secret shades 



Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
While yet there was no fear of Jove. 

I come back to my cage and my restraint the 
fresher and more healthy for it. I wear my 
shackles more contentedly for having respired 
the breath of an imaginary freedom. I do not 
know how it is with others, but I feel the 
better always for the perusal of one of Con- 
greve's — nay, why should I not add even of 
Wycherley's— comedies. I am the gayer at 
least for it ; and I could never connect those 
sports of a witty fancy in any shape with any 
result to be drawn from them to imitation in 



DO 



ELIA. 



real life. They are a world of themselves 
almost as much as fairy-land. Take one of 
their characters, male or female (with few 
exceptions they are alike), and place it in 
a modern play, and my virtuous indignation 
shall rise against the profligate wretch as 
warmly as the Catos of the pit could desire ; 
because in a modern play I am to judge of the 
right and the wrong. The standard of police 
is the measure of political justice. The atmo- 
sphere will blight it, it cannot live here. It 
has got into a moral world, where it has no 
business, from which it must needs fall head- 
long; as dizzy, and incapable of making a 
stand, as a Swedenborgian bad spirit that has 
wandered unawares into the sphere of one of 
his Good Men, or Angels. But in its own world 
do we feel the creature is so very bad ? — The 
Fainalls and the Mirabels, the Dorimants and 
the Lady Touchwoods, in their own sphere, 
do not offend my moral sense ; in fact they 
do not appeal to it at all. They seem engaged 
in their proper element. They break through 
no laws, or conscientious restraints. They 
know of none. They have got out of Chris- 
tendom into the land — what shall I call it ? — 
of cuckoldry — the Utopia of gallantry, where 
pleasure is duty, and the manners perfect free- 
dom. It is altogether a speculative scene of 
things, which has no reference whatever to 
the world that is. No good person can be 
justly offended as a spectator, because no 
good person suffers on the stage. Judged 
morally, every character in these plays — the 
few exceptions only are mistakes — is alike essen- 
tially vain and worthless. The great art of 
Congreve is especially shown in this, that he 
has entirely excluded from his scenes, — some 
little generosities in the part of Angelica per- 
haps excepted, — not only anything like a 
faultless character, but any pretensions to good- 
ness or good feelings whatsoever. Whether 
he did this designedly, or instinctively, the 
effect is as happy, as the design (if design) 
was bold. I used to wonder at the strange 
power which his "Way of the World in par- 
ticular possesses of interesting you all along 
in the pursuits of characters, for whom you 
absolutely care nothing — for you neither hate 
nor love his personages — and I think it is 
owing to this very indifference for any, that 
you endure the whole. He has spread a pri- 



vation of moral light, I will call it, rather 
than by the ugly name of palpable darkness, 
over his creations ; and his shadows flit be- 
fore you without distinction or preference. 
Had he introduced a good character, a single 
gush of moral feeling, a revulsion of the judg- 
ment to actual life and actual duties, the im- 
pertinent Goshen would have only lighted to 
the discovery of deformities, which now are 
none, because we think them none. 

Translated into real life, the characters of 
his, and his friend Wycherley's dramas, are 
profligates and strumpets, — the business of 
their brief existence, the undivided pursuit of 
lawless gallantry. No other spring of action, 
or possible motive of conduct, is recognised ; 
principles which, universally acted upon, must 
reduce this frame of things to a chaos. But 
we do them wrong in so translating them. No 
such effects are produced in their world. When 
we are among them, we are amongst a chaotic 
people. We are not to judge them by our 
usages. No reverend institutions are insulted 
by their proceedings — for they have none 
among them. No peace of families is violated 
— for no family ties exist among them. No 
purity of the marriage bed is stained— for 
none is supposed to have a being. No deep 
affections are disquieted, no holy wedlock 
bands are snapped asunder — for affection's 
depth and wedded faith are not of the growth 
of that soil. There is neither right nor wrong, 
— gratitude or its opposite, — claim or duty, — 
paternity or sonship. Of what consequence is 
it to Virtue, or how is she at all concerned 
about it, whether Sir Simon, or Dapperwit, 
steal away Miss Martha ; or who is the father 
of Lord Froth's or Sir Paul Pliant's children ? 

The whole is a passing pageant, where we 
should sit as unconcerned at the issues, for 
life or death, as at a battle of the frogs and 
mice. But, like Don Quixote, we take part 
against the puppets, and quite as imperti- 
nently. We dare not contemplate an Atlantis, 
a scheme, out of which our coxcombical moral y 
sense is for a little transitory ease excluded. 
We have not the courage to imagine a state 
of things for which there is neither reward 
nor punishment. We cling to the painful 
necessities of shame and blame. We would 
indict our very dreams. 

Amidst the mortifying circumstances at* 



ON THE ARTIFICIAL COMEDY OF THE LAST CENTURY. 



91 



tendant upon growing old, it is something to 
have seen the School for Scandal in its glory. 
This comedy grew out of Congreve and 
Wycherley, but gathered some allays of the 
sentimental comedy which followed theirs. 
It is impossible that it should be now acted, 
though it continues, at long intervals, to be 
announced in the bills. Its hero, when Palmer 
played it at least, was Joseph Surface. When 
I remember the gay boldness, the graceful 
solemn plausibility, the measured step, the 
insinuating voice — to express it in a word — 
the downright acted villany of the part, so 
different from the pressure of conscious actual 
wickedness, — the hypocritical assumption of 
hypocrisy, — which made Jack so deservedly a 
favourite in that character, I must needs con- 
clude the present generation of playgoers 
more virtuous than myself, or more dense. I 
freely confess that he divided the palm with 
me with his better brother ; that, in fact, I 
liked him quite as well. Not but there are 
passages, — like that, for instance, where 
Joseph is made to refuse a pittance to a poor 
relation, — incongruities which Sheridan was 
forced upon by the attempt to join the artificial 
with the sentimental comedy, either of which 
must destroy the other — but over these ob- 
structions Jack's manner floated him so lightly, 
that a refusal from him no more shocked you, 
than the easy compliance of Charles gave you 
in reality any pleasure ; you got over the paltry 
question as quickly as you could, to get back 
into the regions of pure comedy, where no cold 
moral reigns. The highly artificial manner of 
Palmer in this character counteracted every 
disagreeable impression which you might have 
received from the contrast, supposing them 
real, between the two brothers. You did not 
believe in Joseph with the same faith with 
which you believed in Charles. The latter was 
a pleasant reality, the former a no less pleasant 
poetical foil to it. The comedy, I have said, is 
incongruous ; a mixture of Congreve with sen- 
timental incompatibilities : the gaiety upon the 
whole is buoyant ; but it required the consum- 
mate art of Palmer to reconcile the discordant 
elements. 

A player with Jack's talents, if we had one 
now, would not dare to do the part in the same 
manner. He would instinctively avoid every 
turn which might tend to unrealise, and so to 



make the character fascinating. He must take 
his cue from his spectators, who would expect 
a bad man and a good man as rigidly opposed 
to each other as the death-beds of those geniuses 
are contrasted in the prints, which I am sorry 
to say have disappeared from the windows of 
my old friend Carrington Bowles, of St. Paul's 
Church-yard memory— (an exhibition as vene- 
rable as the adjacent cathedral, and almost 
coeval) of the bad and good man at the hour of 
death ; where the ghastly apprehensions of the 
former,— and truly the grim phantom with his 
reality of a toasting-fork is not to be despised, 
— so finely contrast with the meek com- 
placent kissing of the rod, — taking it in like 
honey and butter, — with which the latter 
submits to the scythe of the gentle bleeder, 
Time, who wields his lancet with the appre- 
hensive finger of a popular young ladies' sur- 
geon. What flesh, like loving grass, would 
not covet to meet half-way the stroke of such 
a delicate mower ? — John Palmer was twice an 
actor in this exquisite part. He was playing 
to you all the while that he was playing upon 
Sir Peter and his lady. You had the first inti- 
mation of a sentiment before it was on his lips. 
His altered voice was meant to you, and you 
were to suppose that his fictitious co-flutterers 
on the stage perceived nothing at all of it. 
What was it to you if that half reality, the 
husband, was overreached by the puppetry — 
or the thin thing (Lady Teazle's reputation) 
was persuaded it was dying of a plethory ? The 
fortunes of Othello and Desdemona were not 
concerned in it. Poor Jack has passed from 
the stage in good time, that he did not live to 
this our age of seriousness. The pleasant old 
Teazle King, too, is gone in good time. His 
manner would scarce have passed current in 
our day. We must love or hate— acquit or con- 
demn — censure or pity — exert our detestable 
coxcombry of moral judgment upon everything. 
Joseph Surface, to go down now, must be a 
downright revolting villain — no compromise — 
his first appearance must shock and give hor- 
ror — his specious plausibilities, which the 
pleasurable faculties of our fathers welcomed 
with such hearty greetings, knowing that no 
harm (dramatic harm even) could come, or was 
meant to come, of them, must inspire a cold 
and killing aversion. Charles (the real canting 
person of the scene — for the hypocrisy of 



92 



ELIA. 



Joseph has its ulterior legitimate ends, but 
his brother's professions of a good heart centre 
in downright self-satisfaction) must be loved, 
and Joseph hated. To balance one disagreeable 
reality with another, Sir Peter Teazle must be 
no longer the comic idea of a fretful old 
bachelor bridegroom, whose teasings (while 
King acted it) were evidently as much played 
off at you, as they were meant to concern any- 
body on the stage, — he must be a real person, 
capable in law of sustaining an injury — a 
person towards whom duties are to be ac- 
knowledged — the genuine crim. con. antagonist 
of the villanous seducer Joseph. To realise 
him more, his sufferings under his unfortunate 
match must have the downright pungency of 
life — must (or should) make you not mirthful 
but uncomfortable, just as the same predicament 
would move you in a neighbour or old friend. 
The delicious scenes which give the play its 
name and zest, must affect you in the same se- 
rious manner as if you heard thereputation of a 
dear female friend attacked in your real presence. 
Crabtree and Sir Benjamin— those poor snakes 
that live but in the sunshine of your mirth- 
must be ripened by this hot-bed process of 
realization into asps or amphisbsenas ; and 
Mrs. Candour — ! frightful ! — become ahooded 
serpent. Oh ! who that remembers Parsons 
and Dodd — the wasp and butterfly of the School 
for Scandal — in those two characters ; and 
charming natural Miss Pope, the perfect gentle- 
woman as distinguished from the fine lady of 
comedy, in this latter part — would forego 
the true scenic delight — the escape from life 
— the oblivion of consequences — the holiday 
barring out of the pedant Reflection — those 
Saturnalia of two or three brief hours, well 
won from the world — to sit instead at one of 
our modern plays — to have his coward con- 
science (that forsooth must not be left for a 
moment) stimulated with perpetual appeals — 
dulled rather, and blunted, as a faculty without 
repose must be — and his moral vanity pam- 
pered with images of notional justice, notional 
beneficence, lives saved without the spectators' 
risk, and fortunes given away that cost the 
author nothing ? 

No piece was, perhaps, ever so completely 
cast in all its parts as this- manager's comedy. 
Miss Farren had succeeded to Mrs. Abington 
in Lady Teazle ; and Smith, the original 



Charles, had retired when I first, saw it. The 
rest of the characters, with very slight excep- 
tions, remained. I remember it was then the 
fashion to cry down John Kemble, who took 
the part of Charles after Smith ; but, I thought, 
very unjustly. Smith, I fancy was more airy, 
and took the eye with a certain gaiety of person. 
He brought with him no sombre recollections 
of tragedy. He had not to expiate the fault 
of having pleased beforehand in lofty declama- 
tion. He had no sins of Hamlet or of Richard 
to atone for. His failure in these parts was a 
passport to success in one of so opposite a tend- 
ency. But, as far as I could judge, the weighty 
sense of Kemble made up for more personal in- 
capacity than he had to answer for. His harsh- 
est tones in this part came steeped and dulci- 
fied in good-humour. He made his defects a 
grace. His exact declamatory manner, as he 
managed it, only served to convey the points 
of his dialogue with more precision. It seemed 
to head the shafts to carry them deeper. Not 
one of his sparkling sentences was lost. I 
remember minutely how he delivered each 
in succession, and cannot by any effort ima- 
gine how any of them could be altered for 
the better. No man could deliver brilliant 
dialogue — the dialogue of Congreve or of 
Wycherley — because none understood it — half 
so well as John Kemble. His Valentine, in 
Love for Love, was, to my recollection, fault- 
less. He flagged sometimes in the intervals 
of tragic passion. He would slumber over the 
level parts of an heroic character. His Macbeth 
has been known to nod. But he always seemed 
to me to be particularly alive to pointed and 
witty dialogue. The relaxing levities of tra- 
gedy have not been touched by any since him 
— the playful court-bred spirit in which he 
condescended to the players in Hamlet — the 
sportive relief which he threw into the darker 
shades of Richard — disappeared with him. 
He had his sluggish moods, his torpors — but 
they were the halting-stones and resting-place 
of his tragedy — politic savings, and fetches of 
the breath — husbandry of the lungs, where 
nature pointed him. to be an economist — 
rather, I think, than errors of the judgment. 
They were, at worst, less painful than the 
eternal tormenting unappeasable vigilance, — 
the " lidless dragon eyes," of present fashion- 
able tragedy. 



ON THE ACTING OF MUNDEN. 



!)3 



ON THE ACTING OF MUNDEN. 



Not many nights ago, I had come home from 
seeing this extraordinary performer in Cockle- 
top ; and when I retired to my pillow, his 
whimsical image still stuck by me, in a manner 
as to threaten sleep. In vain I tried to divest 
myself of it, by conjuring up the most opposite 
associations. I resolved to be serious. I raised 
up the gravest topics of life ; private misery, 
public calamity. All would not do : 

There the antic sate 

Mocking our state — ■ — 

his queer visnomy — his bewildering costume — 
all the strange things which he had raked to- 
gether — his serpentine rod, swagging about in 
his pocket — Cleopatra's tear, and the rest of 
his relics — O'Keefe's wild farce, and his wilder 
commentary — till the passion of laughter, like 
grief in excess, relieved itself by its own weight, 
inviting the sleep which in the first instance 
it had driven away. 

But I was not to escape so easily. No sooner 
did I fall into slumbers, than the same image, 
only more perplexing, assailed me in the shape 
of dreams. Not one Munden, but five hun- 
dred, were dancing before me, like the faces 
which, whether you will or no, come when you 
have been taking opium — all the strange com- 
binations, which this strangest of all strange 
mortals ever shot his proper countenance into, 
from the day he came commissioned to dry up 
the tears of the town for the loss of the now 
almost forgotten Edwin. for the power of 
the pencil to have fixed them when I awoke ! 
A season or two since, there was exhibited a 
Hogarth gallery. I do not see why there 
should not be a Munden gallery. In richness 
and variety, the latter would not fall far short 
of the former. 

There is one face of Farley, one face of 
Knight, one (but what a one it is !) of Liston ; 
but Munden has none that you can properly 
pin down, and call his. When you think he has 
exhausted his battery of looks, in unaccount- 



able warfare with your gravity, suddenly he 
sprouts out an entirely new set of features, 
like Hydra. He is not one, but legion ; not 
so much a comedian, as a company. If his 
name could be multiplied like his countenance, 
it might fill a play-bill. He, and he alone, 
literally makes faces: applied to any other per- 
son, the phrase is a mere figure, denoting cer- 
tain modifications of the human countenance. 
Out of some invisible wardrobe he dips for 
faces, as his friend Suett used for wigs, and 
fetches them out as easily. I should not be 
surprised to see him some day put out the head 
of a river-horse ; or come forth a pewitt, or 
lapwing, some feathered metamorphosis. 

I have seen this gifted actor in Sir Christo- 
pher Curry — in Old Dornton — diffuse a glow 
of sentiment which has made the pulse of a 
crowded theatre beat like that of one man ; 
when he has come in aid of the pulpit, doing 
good to the moral heart of a people. I have 
seen some faint approaches to this sort of ex- 
cellence in other players. But in the grand 
grotesque of farce, Munden stands out as single 
and unaccompanied as Hogarth. Hogarth, 
strange to tell, had no followers. The school 
of Munden began, and must end, with him- 
self. 

Can any man wonder, like him ? can any man 
see ghosts, like him? or fight with his own shadow — 
"sessa" — as he does in that strangely-neglected 
thing, the Cobbler of Preston — where his alter- 
nations from the Cobbler to the Magnifico, and 
from the Magnifico to the Cobbler, keep the 
brain of the spectator in as wild a ferment, as 
if some Arabian Night were being acted before 
him. "Who like him can throw, or ever at- 
tempted to throw, a preternatural interest over 
the commonest daily-life objects ? A table or 
a joint-stool, in his conception, rises into a 
dignity equivalent to Cassiopeia's chair. It is 
invested with constellatory importance. You 
could not speak of it with more deference, if 



94 



ELIA. 



it were mounted into the firmament. A beggar 
in the hands of Michael Angelo, says Fuseli, 
rose the Patriarch of Poverty. So the gusto 
of Munden antiquates and ennobles what it 
touches. His pots and his ladles are as grand 
and primal as the seething-pots and hooks seen 



in old prophetic vision. A tub of butter, con- 
templated by him, amounts to a Platonic idea. 
He understands a leg of mutton in its quiddity. 
He stands wondering, amid the common-place 
materials of life, like primaeval man with the 
sun and stars about him. 



END OF THE FIRST SERIES. 






PREFACE. 

BY A FRIEND OF THE LATE ELIA. 



This poor gentleman, who for some months past had been in a declining way, hath at 
length paid his final tribute to nature. 

To say truth, it is time he were gone. The humour of the thing, if there ever was much 
in it, was pretty well exhausted ; and a two years' and a half existence has been a tolerable 
duration for a phantom. 

I am now at liberty to confess, that much which I have heard objected to my late friend's 
writings was well-founded. Crude they are, I grant you — a sort of unlicked, incondite things 
— villanously pranked in an affected array of antique modes and phrases. They had not 
been Ms, if they had been other than such ; and better it is, that a writer should be natural in 
a self-pleasing quaintness, than to affect a naturalness (so called) that should be strange to 
him. Egotistical they have been pronounced by some who did not know, that what he tells 
us, as of himself, was often true only (historically) of another ; as in a former Essay (to save 
many instances) — where under the first person (his favourite figure) he shadows forth the 
forlorn estate of a country-boy placed at a London school, far from his friends and con- 
nections — in direct opposition to his own early history. If it be egotism to imply and twine 
with his own identity the griefs and affections of another — making himself many, or reducing 
many unto himself — then is the skilful novelist, who all along brings in his hero or heroine, 
speaking of themselves, the greatest egotist of all ; who yet has never, therefore, been accused 
of that narrowness. And how shall the intenser dramatist escape being faulty, who doubtless, 
under cover of passion uttered by another, oftentimes gives blameless vent to his most 
inward feelings, and expresses his own story modestly ? 

My late friend was in many respects a singular character. Those who did not like him, 
hated him ; and some, who once liked him, afterwards became his bitterest haters. The truth 
is, he gave himself too little concern what he uttered, and in whose presence. He observed 
neither time nor place, and would e'en out with what came uppermost. With the severe 
religionist he would pass for a free-thinker ; while the other faction set him down for a bigot, 
or persuaded themselves that he belied his sentiments. Few understood him ; and I am not 
certain that at all times he quite understood himself. He too much affected that dangerous 
figure — irony. He sowed doubtful speeches, and reaped plain, unequivocal hatred. — He 
would interrupt the gravest discussion with some light jest ; and yet, perhaps, not quite 
irrelevant in ears that could understand it. Your long and much talkers hated him. The 
informal habit of his mind, joined to an inveterate impediment of speech, forbade him to be 
an orator ; and he seemed determined that no one else should play that part when he was 
present. He was petit and ordinary in his person and appearance. I have seen him some- 



PREFACE. 



times in what is called good company, but where he has been a stranger, sit silent, and be 
suspected for an odd fellow ; till some unlucky occasion provoking it, he would stutter out 
some senseless pun (not altogether senseless perhaps, if rightly taken), which has stamped 
his character for the evening. It was hit or miss with him ; but nine times out of ten, he 
contrived by this device to send away a whole company his enemies. His conceptions rose 
kindlier than his utterance, and his happiest impromptus had the appearance of effort. He has 
been accused of trying to be witty, when in truth he was but struggling to give his poor 
thoughts articulation. He chose his companions for some individuality of character which 
they manifested. — Hence, not many persons of science, and few professed literati, were of his 
councils. They were, for the most part, persons of an uncertain fortune ; and, as to such 
people commonly nothing is more obnoxious than a gentleman of settled (though moderate) 
income, he passed with most of them for a great miser. To my knowledge this was a mistake. 
His intimados, to confess a truth, were in the world's eye a ragged regiment. He found them 
floating on the surface of society ; and the colour, or something else, in the weed pleased him. 
The burrs stuck to him— but they were good and loving burrs for all that. He never greatly 
cared for the society of what are called good people. If any of these were scandalised (and 
offences were sure to arise), he could not help it. "When he has been remonstrated with for 
not making more concessions to the feelings of good people, he would retort by asking, what 
one point did these good people ever concede to him ? He was temperate in his meals and 
diversions, but always kept a little on this side of abstemiousness. Only in the use of the 
Indian weed he might be thought a little excessive. He took it, he would say, as a solvent 
of speech. Marry — as the friendly vapour ascended, how his prattle would curl up some- 
times with it ! the ligaments which tongue-tied him, were loosened, and the stammerer 
proceeded a statist ! 

, I do not know whether I ought to bemoan or rejoice that my old friend is departed. His 
jests were beginning to grow obsolete, and his stories to be found out. He felt the approaches 
of age ; and while he pretended to cling to life, you saw how slender were the ties left to 
bind him. Discoursing with him latterly on this subject, he expressed himself with a 
pettishness, which I thought unworthy of him. In our walks about his suburban retreat 
(as he called it) at Shaeklewell, some children belonging to a school of industry had met us, 
and bowed and curtseyed, as he thought, in an especial manner to him. " They take me 
for a visiting governor," he muttered earnestly. He had a horror, which he carried to a 
foible, of looking like anything important and parochial. He thought that he approached 
nearer to that stamp daily. He had a general aversion from being treated like a grave 
or respectable character, and kept a wary eye upon the advances of age that should so 
entitle him. He herded always, while it was possible, with people younger than himself. 
He did not conform to the march of time, but was dragged along in the procession. His 
manners lagged behind his years. He was too much of the boy- man. The toga mriUs never 
sate gracefully on his shoulders. The impressions of infancy had burnt into him, and he 
resented the impertinence of manhood. These were weaknesses ; but such as they were, 
they are a key to explicate some of his writings. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

BLAKESMOOR IN H SHIRE 1 

POOR RELATIONS 3 

DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND READING ^ . . . .7 

STAGE ILLUSION 10 

TO THE SHADE OF ELLISTON . 12 

ELLISTONIANA i3 

THE OLD MARGATE HOY . . .... . ± e 

THE CONVALESCENT - ... 20 

SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS ■ , ..... 22 

CAPTAIN JACKSON . . . , 24 

THE SUPERANNUATED MAN = .... 26 

THE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING 30 

BARBARA S 32 

THE TOMBS IN THE ABBEY .35 

AMICUS REDIVIVUS 36 

SOME SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SYDNEY 39 

NEWSPAPERS THIRTY-FrVE YEARS AGO 43 

BARRENNESS OF THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY IN THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN 

ART 46 

THE WEDDING 52 

REJOICINGS UPON THE NEW YEAR'S COMING OF AGE 55 

CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD 57 

OLD CHINA .......... 61 

THE CHILD ANGEL; A DREAM 64 



CONTENTS. 



POPULAR FALLACIES- 
PACE 
I. THAT A BULLY IS ALWAYS A COWARD 66 

II. THAT ILL-GOTTEN GAIN NEVER PROSPERS ib. 

HI. THAT A MAN MUST NOT LAUGH AT HIS OWN JEST .... ib. 

IV. THAT SUCH A ONE SHOWS HIS BREEDING— THAT IT IS EASY TO PERCEIVE 

HE IS NO GENTLEMAN 67 

V. THAT THE POOR COPY THE VICES OF THE RICH . . . . . . ib. 

VI. THAT ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST . % 68 

VII. OF TWO DISPUTANTS THE WARMEST IS GENERALLY IN THE WRONG . . ib. 

VIII. THAT VERBAL ALLUSIONS ARE NOT WIT, BECAUSE THEY WILL NOT BEAR 

TRANSLATION 69 

IX. THAT THE WORST PUNS ARE THE BEST ib. 

X. THAT HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES . . , 70 

XL THAI WE MUST NOT LOOK A GIFT-HORSE IN THE MOUTH . . . . ib. 

XII. THAT HOME IS HOME THOUGH IT IS NEVER SO HOMELY 72 

XIII. THAT YOU MUST LOVE ME, AND LOVE MY DOG 74 

XIV. THAT WE SHOULD RISE WITH THE LARK . . 76 

XV. THAT WE SHOULD LIE DOWN WITH THE LAMB 77 

XVI. THAT A SULKY TEMPER IS A MISFORTUNE .... . .78 



E L I A 



BLAKESMOOR IN H- 



-SHIRE. 



I do not know a pleasure more affecting than 
to range at will over the deserted apartments 
of some fine old family mansion. The traces 
of extinct grandeur admit of a better passion 
than envy :jmd contemplations on the great 
and good, whom we fancy in succession to have 
been its inhabitants 5 weave for us illusions, 
incompatible with the bustle of modern occu- 
pancy, and vanities of foolish present aristo- 
cracy. The same difference of feeling, I think, 
attends us between entering an empty and a 
crowded church. In the latter it is chance 
but some present human frailty — an act of 
inattention on the part of some of the auditory 
— or a trait of affectation, or worse, vain-glory 
on that of the preacher — puts us by our best 
thoughts, disharmonising the place and the 
occasion. But wouldst thou know the beauty 
of holiness ? — go alone on some week-day, 
borrowing the keys of good Master Sexton, 
traverse the cool aisles of some country church : 
think of the piety that has kneeled there — 
the congregations, old and young, that have 
found consolation there — the meek pastor — 
the docile parishioner. With no disturbing 
emotions, no cross conflicting comparisons, 
drink in the tranquillity of the place, till thou 
thyself become as fixed and motionless as the 
marble effigies that kneel and weep around thee. 

Journeying northward lately, I could not 
resist going some few miles out of my road to 
look upon the remains of an old great house 
with which I had been impressed in this way 
in infancy. I was apprised that the owner of 
[second series.] 



it had lately pulled it down ; still I had a vague 
notion that it could not all have perished, that 
so much solidity with magnificence could not 
have been crushed all at once into the mere 
dust and rubbish which I found it. 

The work of ruin had proceeded with a swift 
hand indeed, and the demolition of a few weeks 
had reduced it to — an antiquity. 

I was astonished at the indistinction of every- 
thing. Where had stood the great gates ? 
What bounded the court-yard ? Whereabout 
did the out-houses commence ? A few bricks 
only lay as representatives of that which was 
so stately and so spacious. 

Death does not shrink up his human victim 
at this rate. The burnt ashes of a man weigh 
more in their proportion. 

Had I seen these brick-and-mortar knaves 
at their process of destruction, at the plucking 
of every panel I should have felt the varlets 
at my heart. I should have cried out to them 
to spare a plank at least out of the cheerful 
store-room, in whose hot window-seat I used 
to sit and read Cowley, with the grass-plot 
before, and the hum and flappings of that 
one solitary wasp that ever haunted it about 
me — it is in mine ears now, as oft as summer 
returns ; or a panel of the yellow room. 

Why, every plank and panel of that house 
for me had magic in it. The tapestried bed- 
rooms — tapestry so much better than painting 
— not adorning merely, but peopling the 
wainscots — at which childhood ever and anon 
would steal a look, shifting its coverlid (re- 



ELiA. 



placed as quickly) to exercise its tender courage 
in a momentary eye-encounter with those stern 
bright visages, staring reciprocally — all Ovid 
on the walls, in colours vivider than his de- 
scriptions. Actseon in mid sprout, with the 
unappeasable prudery of Diana ; and the still 
more provoking, and almost culinary coolness 
of Dan Phoebus, eel-fashion, deliberately divest- 
ing of Marsyas. 

Then, that haunted room — in which old Mrs. 
Battle died — whereinto I have crept, but always 
in the day time, with a passion of fear ; and a 
sneaking curiosity, terror-tainted, to hold com- 
munication with the past. — How shall they build 
it up again ? 

It was an old deserted place, yet not so 
long deserted but that traces of the splendour 
of past inmates were everywhere apparent. Its 
furniture was still standing — even to the tar- 
nished gilt leather battledores, and crumbling 
feathers of shuttlecocks in the nursery, which 
told that children had once played there. But 
I was a lonely child, and had the range at 
will of every apartment, knew every nook and 
corner, wondered and worshipped everywhere. 

The solitude of childhood is not so much the 
mother of thought, as it is the feeder of love, 
and silence, and admiration. So strange a pas- 
sion for the place possessed me in those years, 
that, though there lay — I shame to say how 
few roods distant from the mansion — half hid 
by trees, what I judged some romantic lake, 
such was the spell which bound me to the 
house, and such my carefulness not to pass its 
strict and proper precincts, that the idle waters 
lay unexplored for me ; and not till late in 
life, curiosity prevailing over elder devotion, I 
found, to my astonishment, a pretty brawling 
brook had been the Lacus Incognitus of my 
infancy. Variegated views, extensive pro- 
spects — and those at no great distance from 
the house — I was told of such — what were 
they to me, being out of the boundaries of my 
Eden ? — So far from a wish to roam, I would 
have drawn, methought, still closer the fences 
of my chosen prison ; and have been hemmed 
in by a yet securer cincture of those excluding 
garden walls. I could have exclaimed with 
that garden-loving poet — 

Bind me, ye woodbines, in your twines ; 
Curl me about, ye gadding vines ; 
And oh so close your circles lace, 
That I may never leave this place ; 



But, lest your fetters prove too weak, 
Ere I your silken bondage break, 
Do you, O brambles, chain me too, 
And, courteous briars, nail me through. 

I was here as in a lonely temple. Snug fire- 
sides — the low-built roof — parlours ten feet by 
ten — frugal boards, and all the homeliness of 
home — these were the condition of my birth — 
the wholesome soil which I was planted in. 
Yet, without impeachment to their tenderest 
lessons, I am not sorry to have had glances of 
something beyond ; and to have taken, if but a 
peep, in childhood, at the contrasting accidents 
of a great fortune. 

To have the feeling of gentility, it is not 
necessary to have been born gentle. The pride 
of ancestry may be had on cheaper terms than 
to be obliged to an importunate race of ances- 
tors ; and the coatless antiquary in his un- 
emblazoned cell, revolving the long line of a 
Mowbray's or De Clifford's pedigree, at those 
sounding names may warm himself into as gay 
a vanity as these who do inherit them. The 
claims of birth are ideal merely, and what 
herald shall go about to strip me of an idea ? 
Is it trenchant to their swords ? can it be 
hacked off as a spur can ? or torn away like a 
tarnished garter ? 

What else were the families of the great to 
us ? what pleasure should we take in their 
tedious genealogies, or their capitulatory brass 
monuments? What to us the uninterrupted 
current of their bloods, if our own did not 
answer within us to a cognate and corre- 
spondent elevation ? 

Or wherefore else, O tattered and diminished 
'Scutcheon that hung upon the time-worn walls 
of thy princely stairs, Blake s moor ! have I in 
childhood so oft stood poring upon the mystic 
characters — thy emblematic supporters, with 
their prophetic " Resurgam " — till, every dreg 
of peasantry purging off, I received into myself 
Very Gentility ? Thou wert first in my 
morning eyes ; and of nights hast detained 
my steps from bedward, till it was but a step 
from gazing at thee to dreaming on thee. 

This is the only true gentry by adoption ; 
the veritable change of blood, and not, as em- 
pirics have fabled, by transfusion. 

Who it was by dying that had earned the 
splendid trophy, I know not, I inquired not ; 
but its fading rags, and colours cobweb-stained, 
told that its subject was of two centuries back. 



POOR RELATIONS. 



And what if my ancestor at that date was 
some Danicetas — feeding flocks — not his own, 
upon the hills of Lincoln — did I in less earnest 
vindicate to myself the family trappings of 
this once proud JEgon ? repaying by a back- 
ward triumph the insults he might possibly 
have heaped in his life-time upon my poor 
pastoral progenitor. 

If it were presumption so to speculate, the 
present owners of the mansion had least reason 
to complain. They had long forsaken the 
old house of their father's for a newer trifle ; 
and I was left to appropriate to myself what 
images I could pick up, to raise my fancy, 
or to soothe my vanity. 

I was the true descendant of those old 

W s ; and not the present family of that 

name, who had fled the old waste places. 

Mine was that gallery of good old family 
portraits, which as I have gone over, giving 
them in fancy my own family name, one— and 
then another — would seem to smile, reaching 
forward from the canvas, to recognise the new 
relationship ; while the rest looked grave, as 
it seemed, at the vacancy in their dwelling, 
and thoughts of fled posterity. 

That Beauty with the cool blue pastoral 
drapery, and a lamb — that hung next the 
great bay window — with the bright yellow 

H shire hair, and eye of watchet hue — so 

like my Alice ! — I am persuaded she was a 
true Elia— Mildred Elia, I take it. 

Mine too, Blake s moor, was thy noble 
Marble Hall with its mosaic pavements, and 
its Twelve Caesars — stately busts in marble — 



ranged round ; of "whose countenances, young 
reader of faces as I was, the frowning beauty 
of Nero, I remember, had most of my wonder ; 
but the mild Galba had my love. There they 
stood in the coldness of death, yet freshness of 
immortality. 

Mine too thy lofty Justice Hall, with its one 
chair of authority, high-backed and wickered, 
once the terror of luckless poacher, or self- 
forgetful maiden — so common since, that bats 
have roosted in it. 

Mine too — whose else?— thy costly fruit- 
garden, with its sun-baked southern wall ; 
the ampler pleasure-garden, rising backwards 
from the house in triple terraces, with flower- 
pots now of palest lead, save that a speck here 
and there, saved from the elements, bespake 
their pristine state to have been gilt and 
glittering ; the verdant quarters backwarder 
still ; and, stretching still beyond, in old for- 
mality, thy firry wilderness, the haunt of the 
squirrel, and the day-long murmuring wood- 
pigeon, with that antique image in the centre, 
God or Goddess I wist not ; but child of 
Athens or old Rome paid never a sincerer 
worship to Pan or to Sylvanus in their native 
groves, than I to that fragmental mystery. 

Was it for this, that I kissed my childish 
hands too fervently in your idol-worship, 
walks and windings of Blake s moor ! for 
this, or what sin of mine, has the plough 
passed over your pleasant places ? I sometimes 
think that as men, when they die, do not die 
all, so of their extinguished habitations there 
may be a hope — a germ to be revivified. 



POOR RELATIONS. 



A Poor Relation — is the most irrelevant 
thing in nature, — a piece of impertinent cor- 
respondency, — an odious approximation, — 
a haunting conscience, — a preposterous sha- 
dow, lengthening in the noon-tide of our 
prosperity, — an unwelcome remembrancer, — 
a perpetually recurring mortification, — a drain 
on your purse, a more intolerable dun upon 
your pride, — a drawback upon success, — 
a rebuke to your rising, — a stain in your 
blood, — a blot on your 'scutcheon, — a rent in 



your garment, — a death's-head at your ban- 
quet, — Agathocles' pot,— a Mordecai in your 
gate, a Lazarus at your door — a lion in your 
path, — a frog in your chamber, — a fly in your 
ointment,— a mote in your eye, — a triumph 
to your enemy, an apology to your friends, — 
the one thing not needful,— the hail in harvest, 
— the ounce of sour in a pound of sweet. 

He is known by his knock. Your heart 
telleth you "That is Mr. ." A rap, be- 
tween familiarity and respect ; that demands, 



ELIA. 



and at the same time seems to despair of, 
entertainment. He entereth smiling and — 
embarrassed. He holdeth out his hand to you 
to shake, and — draweth it back again. He 
casually looketh in about dinner-time — when 
the table is full. He offereth to go away, 
seeing you have company — but is induced to 
stay. He filleth a chair, and your visiter's two 
children are accommodated at a side table. 
He never cometh upon open days, when your 
wife says with some complacency, " My dear, 

perhaps Mr. will drop in to-day." He 

remembereth birth-days — and professeth he is 
fortunate to have stumbled upon one. He 
declareth against fish, the turbot being small — 
yet suffereth himself to be importuned into a 
slice, against his first resolution. He sticketh 
by the port — yet will be prevailed upon to 
empty the remainder glass of claret, if a 
stranger press it upon him. He is a puzzle to 
the servants, who are fearful of being too 
obsequious, or not civil enough, to him. The 
guests think "they have seen him before." 
Every one speculateth upon his condition ; 
and the most part take him to be — a tide- 
waiter. He calleth you by your Christian 
name, to imply that his other is the same with 
your own. He is too familiar by half, yet you 
wish he had less diffidence. With half the 
familiarity, he might pass for a casual de- 
pendant ; with more boldness, he would be in 
no danger of being taken for what he is. He 
is too humble for a friend ; yet taketh on him 
more state than befits a client. He is a worse 
guest than a country tenant, inasmuch as he 
bringeth up no rent — yet 'tis odds, from his 
garb and demeanour, that your guests take him 
for one. He is asked to make one at the 
whist table ; refuseth on the score of poverty, 
and — resents being left out. When the com- 
pany break up, he proffereth to go for a coach 
— and lets the servant go. He recollects your 
grandfather ; and will thrust in some mean and 
quite unimportant anecdote— of the family. He 
knew it when it was not quite so flourishing as 
" he is blest in seeing it now." He reviveth 
past situations, to institute what he calleth — 
favourable comparisons. With a reflecting 
sort of congratulation, he will inquire the price 
of your furniture ; and insults you with a spe- 
cial commendation of your window-curtains. 
He is of opinion that the urn is the more 



elegant shape, but, after all, there was some- 
thing more comfortable about the old tea- 
kettle — which you must remember. He dare 
say you must find a great convenience in 
having a carriage of your own, and appealeth 
to your lady if it is not so. Inquireth if you 
have had your arms done on vellum yet ; and 
did not know, till lately, that such-and-such had 
been the crest of the family. His memory is 
unseasonable ; his compliments perverse ; his 
talk a trouble ; his stay pertinacious ; and 
when he goeth away, you dismiss his chair 
into a corner, as precipitately as possible, and 
feel fairly rid of two nuisances. 

There is a worse evil under the sun, and 
that is — a female Poor Relation. You may do 
something with the other ; you may pass him 
off tolerably well ; but your indigent she- 
relative is hopeless. "He is an old hu- 
mourist," you may say, "and affects to go 
threadbare. His circumstances are better than 
folks would take them to be. You are fond of 
having a Character at your table, and truly he 
is one." But in the indications of female 
poverty there can be no disguise. No woman 
dresses below herself from caprice. The truth 
must out without shuffling. "She is plainly 

related to the L s ; or what does she 

at their house?" She is, in all probability, 
your wife's cousin. Nine times out of ten, at 
least, this is the case. — Her garb is something 
between a gentlewoman and a beggar, yet the 
former evidently predominates. She is most 
provokingly humble, and ostentatiously sensible 
to her inferiority. He may require to be re- 
pressed sometimes — aliquando sufflaminandus 
erat— but there is no raising her. You send 
her soup at dinner, and she begs to be helped 

— after the gentlemen. Mr. requests the 

honour of taking wine with her ; she hesitates 
between Port and Madeira, and chooses the 
former — because he does. She calls the ser- 
vant Sir ; and insists on not troubling him to 
hold her plate. The housekeeper patronises 
her. The children's governess takes upon her 
to correct her, when she has mistaken the 
piano for harpsichord. 

Richard Amlet, Esq., in the play, is a notable 
instance of the disadvantages, to which this 
chimerical notion of affinity constituting a claim 
to acquaintance, may subject the spirit of a 
gentleman. A little foolish blood is all that 



POOR RELATIONS. 



is betwixt him and a lady with a great estate. 
His stars are perpetually crossed by the ma- 
lignant maternity of an old woman, who per- 
sists in calling him " her son Dick." But she 
has wherewithal in the end to recompense his 
indignities, and float him again upon the bril- 
liant surface, under which it had been her 
seeming business and pleasure all along to 
sink him. All men, besides, are not of Dick's 
temperament. I knew an Amlet in real life, 
who, wanting Dick's buoyancy, sank indeed. 

Poor W ■ was of my own standing at 

Christ's, a fine classic, and a youth of promise. 
If he had a blemish, it was too much pride ; 
but its quality was inoffensive ; it was not of 
that sort which hardens the heart, and serves 
to keep inferiors at a distance ; it only sought 
to ward off derogation from itself. It was the 
principle of self-respect carried as far as it 
could go, without infringing upon that respect, 
which he would have every one else equally 
maintain for himself. He would have you to 
think alike with him on this topic. Many a 
quarrel have I had with him, when we were 
rather older boys, and our tallnessmade us more 
obnoxious to observation in the blue clothes, 
because I would not thread the alleys and 
blind ways of the town with him to elude 
notice, when we have been out together on a 
holiday in the streets of this sneering and 

prying metropolis. "W went, sore with 

these notions, to Oxford, where the dignity and 
sweetness of a scholar's life, meeting with the 
alloy of a humble introduction, wrought in him 
a passionate devotion to the place, with a pro- 
found aversion from the society. The servitor's 
gown (worse than his school array) clung to 
him with Nessian venom. He thought himself 
ridiculous in a garb, under which Latimer must 
have walked erect, and in which Hooker, in 
his young days, possibly flaunted, in a vein of 
no discommendable vanity. In the depth of 
college shades, or in his lonely chamber, the 
poor student shrunk from observation. He 
found shelter among books, which insult not ; 
and studies, that ask no questions of a youth's 
finances. He was lord of his library, and 
seldom cared for looking out beyond his 
domains. The healing influence of studious 
pursuits was upon him, to soothe and to ab- 
stract. He was almost a healthy man ; when 
the waywardness of his fate broke out against 



him with a second and worse malignity. The 

father of W had hitherto exercised the 

humble profession of house-painter at N , 

near Oxford. A supposed interest with some 
of the heads of colleges had now induced him 
to take up his abode in that city, with the hope 
of being employed upon some public works 
which were talked of. From that moment I 
read in the countenance of the young man the 
determination which at length tore him from 
academical pursuits for ever. To a person 
unacquainted with our universities, the dis- 
tance between the gownsmen and the towns- 
men, as they are called — the trading part of 
the latter especially — is carried to an excess 
that would appear harsh and incredible. The 
temperament of W 's father was diame- 
trically the reverse of his own. Old W 

was a little, busy, cringing tradesman, who, 
with his son upon his arm, would stand bowing 
and scraping, cap in hand, to any thing that 
wore the semblance of a gown — insensible to 
the winks and opener remonstrances of the 
young man, to whose chamber-fellow, or equal 
in standing, perhaps, he was thus obsequiously 
and gratuitously ducking. Such a state of 

things could not last. W. must change 

the air of Oxford, or be suffocated. He chose 
the former ; and let the sturdy moralist, who 
strains the point of the filial duties as high as 
they can bear, censure the dereliction ; he 
cannot estimate the struggle. I stood with 

W , the last afternoon I ever saw him, 

under the eaves of his paternal dwelling. It 
was in the fine lane leading from the High- 
street to the back of **** college, where 

W kept his rooms. He seemed thoughtful 

and more reconciled. I ventured to rally him 
—finding him in a better mood— upon a repre- 
sentation of the Artist Evangelist, which the 
old man, whose affairs were beginning to 
flourish, had caused to be set up in a splendid 
sort of frame over his really handsome shop, 
either as a token of prosperity or badge of 

gratitude to his saint. W looked up at 

the Luke, and, like Satan, a knew his mounted 
sign — and fled." A letter on his father's 
table the next morning announced that he had 
accepted a commission in a regiment about to 
embark for Portugal. He was among the first 
who perished before the walls of St. Sebastian. 
I do not know how, upon a subject which I 



ELIA. 



began with treating half seriously, I should 
have fallen upon a recital so eminently painful ; 
but this theme of poor relationship is replete 
with so much matter for tragic as well as comic 
associations, that it is difficult to keep the 
account distinct without blending. The earliest 
impressions which I received on this matter, 
are certainly not attended with anything pain- 
ful, or very humiliating, in the recalling. At 
my father's table (no very splendid one) was 
to be found, every Saturday, the mysterious 
figure of an aged gentleman, clothed in neat 
black, of a sad yet comely appearance. His 
deportment was of the essence of gravity ; 
his words few or none ; and I was not to make 
a noise in his presence. I had little inclination 
to have done so — for my cue was to admire in 
silence. A particular elbow-chair was appro- 
priated to him, which was in no case to be 
violated. A peculiar sort of sweet pudding, 
which appeared on no other occasion, distin- 
guished the days of his coming. I used to 
think him a prodigiously rich man. All I 
could make out of him was, that he and 
my father had been schoolfellows, a world 
ago, at Lincoln, and that he came from the 
Mint. The Mint I knew to be a place where 
all the money was coined — and I thought he 
was the owner of all that money. Awful ideas 
of the Tower twined themselves about his 
presence. He seemed above human infirmities 
and passions. A sort of melancholy grandeur 
invested him. From some inexplicable doom 
I fancied him obliged to go about in an eternal 
suit of mourning ; a captive— a stately being, 
let out of the Tower on Saturdays. Often have 
I wondered at the temerity of my father, who, 
in spite of an habitual general respect which 
we all in common manifested towards him, 
would venture now and then to stand up against 
him in some argument, touching their youthful 
days. The houses of the ancient city of Lincoln 
are divided (as most of my readers know) be- 
tween the dwellers on the hill, and in the 
valley. This marked distinction formed an 
obvious division between the boys who lived 
above (however brought together in a common 
school) and the boys whose paternal residence 
was on the plain ; a sufficient cause of hostility 
in the code of these young Grotiuses. My 
father had been a leading Mountaineer ; and 
would still maintain the general superiority, in 



skill and hardihood, of the Above Boys (his own 
faction) over the Below Boys (so were they 
called), of which party his contemporary had 
been a chieftain. Many and hot were the 
skirmishes on this topic — the only one upon 
which the old gentleman was ever brought 
out — and bad blood bred ; even sometimes 
almost to the recommencement (so I expected) 
of actual hostilities. But my father, who 
scorned to insist upon advantages, generally 
contrived to turn the conversation upon some 
adroit by-commendation of the old Minster ; 
in the general preference of which, before 
all other cathedrals in the island, the dweller 
on the hill, and the plain-born, could meet on 
a conciliating level, and lay down their less 
important differences. Once only I saw the 
old gentleman really ruffled, and I remembered 
with anguish the thought that came over me : 
" Perhaps he will never come here again." He 
had been pressed to take another plate of the 
viand, which I have already mentioned as the 
indispensable concomitant of his visits. He 
had refused with a resistance amounting to 
rigour — when my aunt, an old Lincolnian, but 
who had something of this, in common with 
my cousin Bridget, that she would sometimes 
press civility out of season — uttered the fol- 
lowing memorable application — " Do take 
another slice, Mr. Billet, for you do not get 
pudding every day." The old gentleman said 
nothing at the time — but he took occasion in 
the course of the evening, when some argument 
had intervened between them, to utter with 
an emphasis which chilled the company, and 
which chills me now as I write it — " Woman, 
you are superannuated ! " John Billet did not 
survive long, after the digesting of this affront ; 
but he survived long enough to assure me that 
peace was actually restored ! and, if I remem- 
ber aright, another pudding was discreetly 
substituted in the place of that which had oc- 
casioned the offence. He died at the Mint 
(anno 1781), where he had long held, what he 
accounted, a comfortable independence ; and 
with five pounds, fourteen shillings, and a 
penny, which were found in his escrutoire 
after his decease, left the world, blessing God 
that he had enough to bury him, and that he 
had never been obliged to any man for a six- 
pence. This was — a Poor Relation. 



DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND READING. 



DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND READING. 



To mind the inside of a book is to entertain one's self with the forced product of another man's brain. 
Now I think a man of quality and breeding may be much amused with the natural sprouts of his own. 

Lord Foppington, in the Relapse. 



An ingenious acquaintance of my own was 
so much struck with this bright sally of his 
Lordship, that he has left off reading alto- 
gether, to the great improvement of his origi- 
nality. At the hazard of losing some credit 
on this head, I must confess that I dedicate 
no inconsiderable portion of my time to other 
people's thoughts. I dream away my life in 
others' speculations. I love to lose myself in 
other men's minds. When I am not walking, 
I am reading ; I cannot sit and think. Books 
think for me. 

I have no repugnances. Shaftesbury is not 
too genteel for me, nor Jonathan Wild too 
low. I can. read any thing which I call a hook. 
There are things in that shape which I cannot 
allow for such. 

In this catalogue of books which are no books — 
biblia a-biblia — I reckon Court Calendars, Direc- 
tories, Pocket-Books, Draught Boards, bound 
and lettered on the back, Scientific Treatises, 
Almanacks, Statutes at Large : the works of 
Hume, Gibbon, Robertson, Beattie, Soame 
Jenyns, and generally, all those volumes which 
"no gentleman's library should be without :" 
the Histories of Flavius Josephus (that learned 
Jew), and Paley's Moral Philosophy. With 
these exceptions, I can read almost any thing. 
I bless my stars for a taste so catholic, so 
unexcluding. 

I confess that it moves my spleen to see 
these things in books' clothing perched upon 
shelves, like false saints, usurpers of true 
shrines, intruders into the sanctuary, thrusting 
out the legitimate occupants. To reach down 
a well-bound semblance of a volume, and hope 
it some kind-hearted play-book, then, opening 



what "seem its leaves," to come bolt upon a 
withering Population Essay. To expect a 
Steele, or a Farquhar, and find — Adam Smith 
To view a well-arranged assortment of block- 
headed Encyclopaedias (Anglicanas or Metro- 
politanas) set out in an array of russia, or 
morocco, when a tithe of that good leather 
would comfortably re-clothe my shivering 
folios ; would renovate Paracelsus himself, 
and enable old Raymund Lully to look like 
himself again in the world. I never see these 
impostors, but I long to strip them, to warm 
my ragged veterans in their spoils. 

To be strong-backed and neat-bound is the 
desideratum of a volume. Magnificence comes 
after. This, -when it can be afforded, is not to 
be lavished upon all kinds of books indiscrimi- 
nately. I would not dress a set of Magazines, 
for instance, in full suit. The dishabille, or 
half-binding (with russia backs ever) is our 
costume. A Shakspeare, or a Milton (unless 
the first editions), it were mere foppery to 
trick out in gay apparel. The possession of 
them confers no distinction. The exterior of 
them (the things themselves being so common), 
strange to say, raises no sweet emotions, no 
tickling sense of property in the owner. 
Thomson's Seasons, again, looks best (I main- 
tain it) a little torn, and dog's-eared. How 
beautiful to a genuine lover of reading are the 
sullied leaves, and worn-out appearance, nay 
the very odour (beyond russia), if we would 
not forget kind feelings in fastidiousness, of 
an old " Circulating Library " Tom Jones, or 
Vicar of Wakefield ! How they speak of the 
thousand thumbs that have turned over their 
| pages with delight !— of the lone sempstress. 



ELIA. 



whom they may have cheered (milliner, or 
harder-working mantua-maker) after her long 
day's needle-toil, running far into midnight, 
when she has snatched an hour, ill spared 
from sleep, to steep her cares, as in some 
Lethean cup, in spelling Out their enchanting 
contents ! "Who would have them a whit less 
soiled ? What better condition could we 
desire to see them in ? 

In some respects the better a book is, the 
less it demands from binding. Fielding, 
Smollett, Sterne, and all that class of per- 
petually self-reproductive volumes — Great 
Nature's Stereotypes — we see them indivi- 
dually perish with less regret, because we 
know the copies of them to be " eterne." But 
where a book is at once both good and rare — 
where the individual is almost the species, and 
when that perishes, 

We know not where is that Promethean torch 

That can its light relumine— 

such a book, for instance, as the Life of the 
Duke of Newcastle, by his Duchess — no casket 
is rich enough, no casing sufficiently durable, 
to honour and keep safe such a jewel. 

Not only rare volumes of this description, 
which seem hopeless ever to be reprinted ; 
but old editions of writers, such as Sir Philip 
Sydney, Bishop Taylor, Milton in his prose- 
works, Fuller — of whom we have reprints, yet 
the books themselves, though they go about, 
and are talked of here and there, we know, 
have not endenizened themselves (nor possibly 
ever will) in the national heart, so as to 
become stock books — it is good to possess 
these in durable and costly covers. I do not 
care for a First Folio of Shakspeare. I rather 
prefer the common editions of Rowe and 
Tonson, without notes, and with plates, which, 
being so execrably bad, serve as maps, or 
modest remembrancers, to the text ; and with- 
out pretending to any supposable emulation 
with it, are so much better than the Shak- 
speare gallery engravings, which did. I have a 
community of feeling with my countrymen 
about his Plays, and I like those editions of 
him best, which have been oftenest tumbled 
about and handled. — On the contrary, I cannot 
read Beaumont and Fletcher but in Folio. 
The Octavo editions are painful to look at. I 
have no sympathy with them. If they were 
as much read as the current editions of the 



other poet, I should prefer them in that shape 
to the older one. I do not know a more heart- 
less sight than the reprint of the Anatomy of 
Melancholy. What need was there of un- 
earthing the bones of that fantastic old great 
man, to expose them in a winding-sheet of the 
newest fashion to modern censure ? what 
hapless stationer could dream of Burton ever 
becoming popular ? — The wretched Malone 
could not do worse, when he bribed the sexton 
of Stratford church to let him whitewash the 
painted effigy of old Shakspeare, which stood 
there, in rude but lively fashion depicted, to 
the very colour of the cheek, the eye, the eye- 
brow, hair, the very dress he used to wear — 
the only authentic testimony we had, however 
imperfect, of these curious parts and parcels 
of him. They covered him over with a coat 

of white paint. By , if I had been a 

justice of peace for Warwickshire, I would 
have clapt both commentator and sexton fast 
in the stocks, for a pair of meddling sacrilegious 
varlets. 

I think I see them at their work — these 
sapient trouble-tombs. 

Shall I be thought fantastical, if I confess, 
that the names of some of our poets sound 
sweeter, and have a finer relish to the ear— to 
mine, at least — than that of Milton or of Shak- 
speare ? It may be, that the latter are more 
staled and rung upon in common discourse. 
The sweetest names, and which carry a per- 
fume in the mention, are, Kit Marlowe, 
Drayton, Drummond of Hawthornden, and 
Cowley. 

Much depends upon when and where you read 
a book. In the five or six impatient minutes, 
before the dinner is quite ready, who would 
think of taking up the Fairy Queen for a stop- 
gap, or a volume of Bishop Andrewes' ser- 
mons? 

Milton almost requires a solemn service of 
music to be played before you enter upon him. 
But he brings his music, to which, who listens, 
had need bring docile thoughts, and purged 
ears. 

Winter evenings— the world shut out — with 
less of ceremony the gentle Shakspeare enters. 
At such a season, the Tempest, or his own 
Winter's Tale — 

These two poets you cannot avoid reading 
aloud — to yourself, or (as it chances) to some 



DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND READING. 



single person listening. More than one — and 
it degenerates into an audience. 

Books of quick interest, that hurry on for 
incidents, are for the eye to glide over only. 
It will not do to read them out. I could never 
listen to even the better kind of modern novels 
without extreme irksomeness. 

A newspaper, read out, is intolerable. In 
some of the Bank offices it is the custom (to 
save so much individual time) for one of the 
clerks — who is the best scholar — to commence 
upon the Times, or the Chronicle, and recite 
its entire contents aloud,^ro bono publico. With 
every advantage of lungs and elocution, the 
effect is singularly vapid. In barbers' shops 
and public-houses a fellow will get up and 
spell out a paragraph, which he communicates 
as some discovery. Another follows with his 
selection. So the entire journal transpires at 
length by piece-meal. Seldom-readers are slow 
readers, and, without this expedient, no one 
in the company would probably ever travel 
through the contents of a whole paper. 

Newspapers always excite curiosity. No 
one ever lays one down without a feeling of 
disappointment. 

What an eternal time that gentleman in 
black, at Nando's, keeps the paper ! I am sick 
of hearing the waiter bawling out incessantly, 
" The Chronicle is in hand, Sir." 

Coming in to an inn at night — having ordered 
your supper — what can be more delightful 
than to find lying in the window-seat, left 
there time out of mind by the carelessness of 
some former guest — two or three numbers 
of the old Town and Country Magazine, 
with its amusing ttte-a-ttte pictures — " The 

Royal Lover and Lady G ;" "The Melting 

Platonic and the old Beau,"— and such-like 
antiquated scandal ? Would you exchange it 
— at that time, and in that place — for a better 
book? 

Poor Tobin, who latterly fell blind, did not 
regret it so much for the weightier kinds of 
reading — the Paradise Lost, or Comus, he could 
have read to him — but he missed the pleasure 
of skimming over with his own eye a magazine, 
or a light pamphlet. 

I should not care to be caught in the serious 
avenues of some cathedral alone, and reading 
Candide 

I do not remember a more whimsical surprise 



than having been once detected — by a familiar 
damsel — reclined at my ease upon the grass, 
on Primrose Hill (her Cythera), reading — 
Pamela. There was nothing in the book to 
make a man seriously ashamed at the exposure ; 
but as she seated herself down by me, and 
seemed determined to read in company, I could 
have wished it had been — any other book. 
We read on very sociably for a few pages ; 
and, not finding the author much to her taste, 
she got up, and — went away. Gentle casuist, 
I leave it to thee to conjecture, whether the 
blush (for there was one between us) was the 
property of the nymph or the swain in this 
dilemma. From me you shall never get the 
secret. 

I am not much a friend to out-of-doors 
reading. I cannot settle my spirits to it. I 
knew a Unitarian minister, who was generally 
to be seen upon Snow-hill (as yet Skinner's- 
street was not), between the hours of ten and 
eleven in the morning, studying a volume of 
Lardner. I own this to have been a strain of 
abstraction beyond my reach. I used to admire 
how he sidled along, keeping clear of secular 
contacts. An illiterate encounter with a 
porter's knot, or a bread-basket, would have 
quickly put to flight all the theology I am 
master of, and have left me worse than indif- 
ferent to the five points. 

There is a class of street-readers, whom I 
can never contemplate without affection — the 
poor gentry, who, not having wherewithal to 
buy or hire a book, filch a little learning at the 
open stalls — the owner, with his hard eye, 
casting envious looks at them all the while, 
and thinking when they will have done. Ven- 
turing tenderly, page after page, expecting 
every moment when he shall interpose his 
interdict, and yet unable to deny themselves 
the gratification, they a snatch a fearful joy." 

Martin B , in this way, by daily fragments, 

got through two volumes of Clarissa, when the 
stall-keeper damped his laudable ambition, by 
asking him (it was in his younger days) whether 
he meant to purchase the work. M. declares, 
that under no circumstance in his life did he 
ever peruse a book with half the satisfaction 
which he took in those uneasy snatches. A 
quaint poetess of our day has moralised upon 
this subject in two very touching but homely 
stanzas. 



10 


ELIA. 


I saw a boy with eager eye 




Of sufferings the poor have many, 


Open a book upon a stall, 




Which never can the rich annoy : 


And read, as he'd devour it all ; 




I soon perceived another boy, 


Which when the stall-man did espy, 




Who look'd as if he had not any 


Soon to the boy I heard him call, 




Food, for that day at least — enjoy 


" You Sir, you never buy a book, 




The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder. 


Therefore in one you shall not look." 




This boy's case, then thought I, is surely harder, 


The boy pass'd slowly on, and with a sigh 




Thus hungry, longing, thus without a penny, 


He wish'd he never had been taught to read, 




Beholding choice of dainty-dressed meat : 


Then of the old churl's books he should have had no 


need. 


No wonder if he wish he ne'er had learn'd to eat. 



STAGE ILLUSION. 



A play is said to be well or ill acted, in 
proportion to the scenical illusion produced. 
Whether such illusion can in any case be per- 
fect, is not the question. The nearest approach 
to it, we are told, is, when the actor appears 
wholly unconscious of the presence of spec- 
tators. In tragedy — in all which is to affect 
the feelings — this undivided attention to his 
stage business seems indispensable. Yet it is, 
in fact, dispensed with every day by our 
cleverest tragedians ; and while these refer- 
ences to an audience, in the shape of rant or 
sentiment, are not too frequent or palpable, a 
sufficient quantity of illusion for the purposes 
of dramatic interest maybe said to be produced 
in spite of them. But, tragedy apart, it may 
be inquired whether, in certain characters in 
comedy, especially those which are a little 
extravagant, or which involve some notion 
repugnant to the moral sense, it is not a proof 
of the highest skill in the comedian when, 
without absolutely appealing to an audience, 
he keeps up a tacit understanding with them ; 
and makes them, unconsciously to themselves, 
a party in the scene. The utmost nicety is 
required in the mode of doing this ; but we 
speak only of the great artists in the profes- 
sion. 

The most mortifying infirmity in human 
nature, to feel in ourselves, or to contemplate 
in another, is, perhaps, cowardice. To see a 
coward done to the life upon a stage would pro- 
duce anything but mirth. Yet we most of us 
remember Jack Bannister's cowards. Could 
anything be more agreeable, more pleasant ? 



We loved the rogues. How was this effected 
but by the exquisite art of the actor in a per 
petual sub-insinuation to us, the spectators, 
even in the extremity of the shaking fit, that 
he was not half such a coward as we took him 
for ? We saw all the common symptoms of 
the malady upon him ; the quivering lip, the 
cowering knees, the teeth chattering ; and 
could have sworn u that man was frightened." 
But we forgot all the while—or kept it almost 
a secret to ourselves — that he never once lost 
his self-possession ; that he let out by a thou- 
sand droll looks and gestures — meant at us, 
and not at all supposed to be visible to his 
fellows in the scene, that his confidence in his 
own resources had never once deserted him. 
Was this a genuine picture of a coward ? or 
not rather a likeness, which the clever artist 
contrived to palm upon us instead of an original; 
while we secretly connived at the delusion for 
the purpose of greater pleasure, than a more 
genuine counterfeiting of the imbecility, help- 
lessness, and utter self-desertion, which we 
know to be concomitants of cowardice in real 
life, could have given us ? 

Why are misers so hateful in the world, and 
so endurable on the stage, but because the 
skilful actor, by a sort of sub-reference, rather 
than direct appeal to us, disarms the character 
of a great deal of its odiousuess, by seeming 
to engage our compassion for the insecure 
tenure by which he holds his money-bags and 
parchments ? By this subtle vent half of the 
hatefulness of the character — the self-closeness 
with which in real life it coils itself up from 



STAGE ILLUSION. 



the sympathies of men — evaporates. The 
miser becomes sympathetic ; i. e. is no genuine 
miser. Here again a diverting likeness is sub- 
stituted for a very disagreeable reality. 

Spleen, irritability — the pitiable infirmities 
of old men, which produce only pain to behold 
in the realities, counterfeited upon a stage, 
divert not altogether for the comic appendages 
to them, but in part from an inner conviction 
that they are being acted before us ; that a like- 
ness only is going on, and not the thing itself. 
They please by being done under the life, or 
beside it ; not to the life. When Gattie acts an 
old man, is he angry indeed ? or only a plea- 
sant counterfeit, just enough of a likeness to 
recognise, without pressing upon us the uneasy 
sense of a reality ? 

Comedians, paradoxical as it may seem, may 
be too natural. It was the case with a late 
actor. Nothing could be more earnest or true 
than the manner of Mr. Emery ; this told 
excellently in his Tyke, and characters of a 
tragic cast. But when he carried the same 
rigid exclusiveness of attention to the stage 
business, and wilful blindness and oblivion of 
everything before the curtain into his comedy, 
it produced a harsh and dissonant effect. He 
was out of keeping with the rest of the Per- 
sona? Dramatis. There was as little link be- 
tween him and them, as betwixt himself and 
the audience. He was a third estate, dry, re- 
pulsive, and unsocial to all. Individually con- 
sidered, his execution was masterly. But 
comedy is not this unbending thing ; for this 
reason, that the same degree of credibility is 
not required of it as to serious scenes. The 
degrees of credibility demanded to the two 
things, may be illustrated by the different sort 
of truth which we expect when a man tells us 
a mournful or a merry story. If we suspect 
the former of falsehood in any one tittle, we 
reject it altogether. Our tears refuse to flow 
at a suspected imposition. But the teller of a 
mirthful tale has latitude allowed him. We 
are content with less than absolute truth. 'Tis 
the same with dramatic illusion. We confess 
we love in comedy to see an audience natural- 
ised behind the scenes, taken into the interest 
of the drama, welcomed as by-standers how- 
ever. There is something ungracious in a 
comic actor holding himself aloof from all par- 



ticipation or concern with those who are come 
to be diverted by him. Macbeth must see the 
dagger, and no ear but his own be told of it ; 
but an old fool in farce may think he sees 
something, and by conscious words and looks 
express it, as plainly as he can speak, to pit, 
box, and gallery. When an impertinent in 
tragedy, an Osric, for instance, breaks in upon 
the serious passions' of the scene, we approve 
of the contempt with which he is treated. But 
when the pleasant impertinent of comedy, in.a 
piece purely meant to give delight, and raise 
mirth out of whimsical perplexities, worries 
the studious man with taking up his leisure, or 
making his house his home, the same sort of 
contempt expressed (however natural) would 
destroy the balance of delight in the spectators. 
To make the intrusion comic, the actor who 
plays the annoyed man must a little desert 
nature ; he must, in short, be thinking of the 
audience, and express only so much dissatis- 
faction and peevishness as is consistent with 
the pleasure of comedy. In other words, his 
perplexity must seem half put on. If he repel 
the intruder with the sober set face of a man 
in earnest, and more especially if he deliver 
his expostulations in a tone which in the world 
must necessarily provoke a duel ; his real-life 
manner will destroy the whimsical and purely 
dramatic existence of the other character 
(which to render it comic demands an antago- 
nist comicality on the part of the character 
opposed to it), and convert what was meant 
for mirth, rather than belief, into a downright 
piece of impertinence indeed, which would 
raise no diversion in us, but rather stir pain, 
to see inflicted in earnest upon any unworthy 
person. A very judicious actor (in most of his 
parts) seems to have fallen into an error of 
this sort in his playing with Mr. Wrench in 
the farce of Free and Easy. 

Many instances would be tedious ; these may 
suffice to show that comic acting at least does 
not always demand from the performer that 
strict abstraction from all reference to an 
audience which is exacted of it ; but that in 
some cases a sort of compromise may take 
place, and all the purposes of dramatic delight 
be attained by a judicious understanding, not 
too openly announced, between the ladies and 
gentlemen — on both sides of the curtain. 



12 



ELIA. 



TO THE SHADE OF ELLISTON. 



Joyousest of once embodied spirits, whither 
at length hast thou flown ? to what genial 
region are we permitted to conjecture that 
thou hast flitted ? 

Art thou sowing thy wild oats yet (the 
harvest time was still to come with thee) upon 
Casual sands of Avernus ? or art thou enacting 
Rover (as we would gladlier think) by wander- 
ing Elysian streams ? 

This mortal frame, while thou didst play thy 
brief antics amongst us, was in truth anything 
but a prison to thee, as the vain Platonist 
dreams of this body to be no better than a 
county gaol, forsooth, or some house of durance 
vile, whereof the five senses are the fetters. 
Thou knewest better than to be in a hurry to 
cast off those gyves ; and had notice to quit, 
I fear, before thou wert quite ready to abandon 
this fleshy tenement. It was thy Pleasure- 
House, thy Palace of Dainty Devices : thy 
Louvre, or thy White-Hall. 

What new mysterious lodgings dost thou 
tenant now ? or when may we expect thy aerial 
house-warming ? 

Tartarus we know, and we have read of the 
Blessed Shades ; now cannot I intelligibly 
fancy thee in either. 

Is it too much to hazard a conjecture, that 
(as the schoolmen admitted a receptacle apart 
for Patriarchs and un-chrisom babes) there 
may exist — not far perchance from that store- 
house of all vanities, which Milton saw in 
vision — a Limbo somewhere for Players ? 
and that 
Up thither like aerial vapours fly- 
Both all Stage things, and all that in Stage things 
Built their fond hopes of glory, or lasting fame ? 
All the unaccomplished works of Authors' hands, 
Abortive, monstrous, or unkindly mixed, 
Damn'd upon earth, fleet thither— 
Play, Opera, Farce, with all their trumpery.— 
There, by the neighbouring moon (by some 
not improperly supposed thy Regent Planet 
upon earth), mayst thou not still be acting thy 



managerial pranks, great disembodied Lessee 1 
but Lessee still, and still a manager. 

In Green Rooms, impervious to mortal eye, 
the muse beholds thee wielding posthumous 
empire. 

Thin ghosts of Figurantes (never plump on 
earth) circle thee in endlessly, and still their 
song is Fie on sinful Phantasy! 

Magnificent were thy capriccios on this globe 
of earth, Robert William Elliston ! for 
as yet we know not thy new name in heaven. 

It irks me to think, that, stript of thy 
regalities, thou shouldst ferry over, a poor 
forked shade, in crazy Stygian wherry. Me- 
thinks I hear the old boatman, paddling by 
the weedy wharf, with raucid voice, bawling 
"Sculls, Sculls:" to which, with waving 
hand, and majestic action, thou deignest no 
reply, other than in two curt monosyllables, 
« No : Oars." 

But the laws of Pluto's kingdom know small 
difference between king, and cobbler ; manager, 
and call-boy ; and, if haply your dates of life 
were conterminant, you are quietly taking 
your passage, cheek by cheek (O ignoble 
levelling of Death) with the shade of some 
recently departed candle-snuffer. 

But mercy ! what strippings, what tearing 
off of histrionic robes, and private vanities ! 
what denudations to the bone, before the surly 
Ferryman will admit you to set a foot within 
his battered lighter. 

Crowns, sceptres ; shield, sword, and trun- 
cheon ; thy own coronation robes (for thou 
hast brought the whole property-man's ward- 
robe with thee, enough to sink a navy) ; the 
judge's ermine ; the coxcomb's wig ; the snuff- 
box a la Foppington — all must overboard, he 
positively swears — and that Ancient Mariner 
brooks no denial ; for, since the tiresome 
monodrame of the old Thracian Harper, 
Charon, it is to be believed, hath shown small 
taste for theatricals. 



ELL1ST0NIANA. 



13 



Ay, now 'tis done. You are just boat- 
weight ; pura et puta anhna. 

But, bless me, how little you look ! 

So shall we all look — kings and keysars — 
stripped for the last voyage. 

But the murky rogue pushes off. Adieu, 
pleasant, and thrice pleasant shade ! with my 
parting thanks for many a heavy hour of life 
lightened by thy harmless extravaganzas, 
public or domestic. 

Rhadamanthus, who tries the lighter causes 
below, leaving to his two brethren the heavy 
calendars — honest Rhadamanth, always partial 
to players, weighing their parti-coloured exist- 
ence here upon earth, — making account of the 



few foibles, that may have shaded thy real life, 
as we call it, '(though, substantially, scarcely 
less a vapour than thy idlest vagaries upon the 
boards of Drury,) as but of so many echoes, 
natural re-percussions, and results to be ex- 
pected from the assumed extravagancies of 
thy secondary or mock life, nightly upon a stage 
— after a lenient castigation, with rods lighter 
than of those Medusean ringlets, but just 
enough to " whip the offending Adam out of 
thee" shall courteously dismiss thee at the 
right hand gate — the o. p. side of Hades — 
that conducts to masques and merry-makings 
in the Theatre Royal of Proserpine. 

PLAUDITO, ET VALETO. 



ELLISTONIANA. 



My acquaintance with the pleasant creature, 
whose loss we all deplore, was but slight. 

My first introduction to E., which afterwards 
ripened into an acquaintance a little on this 
side of intimacy, was over a counter in the 
Leamington Spa Library, then newly entered 
upon by a branch of his family. E., whom 
nothing misbecame — to auspicate, I suppose, 
the filial concern, and set it a-going with a 
lustre — was serving in person two damsels 
fair, who had come into the shop ostensibly to 
inquire for some new publication, but in reality 
to have a sight of the illustrious shopman, 
hoping some conference. With what an air 
did he reach down the volume, dispassionately 
giving his opinion of the worth of the work in 
question, and launching out into a dissertation 
on its comparative merits with those of certain 
publications of a similar stamp, its rivals ! his 
enchanted customers fairly hanging on his lips, 
subdued to their authoritative sentence. So 
have I seen a gentleman in comedy acting the 
shopman. So Lovelace sold his gloves in King 
Street. I admired the histrionic art, by which 
he contrived to carry clean away every notion 
of disgrace, from the occupation he had so 
generously submitted to ; and from that hour 
I judged him, with no after repentance, to be 
a person with whom it would be a felicity to 
be more acquainted. 



To descant upon his merits as a Comedian 
would be superfluous. With his blended private 
and professional habits alone I have to do ; 
that harmonious fusion of the manners of the 
player into those of every-day life, which 
brought the stage boards into streets, and 
dining-parlours, and kept up the play when 
the play was ended. — "I like Wrench," a friend 
was saying to him one day, " because he is the 
same, natural, easy creature, on the stage, that 
he is ojf." " My case exactly," retorted Elliston 
— with a charming forgetfulness, that the con- 
verse of a proposition does not always lead to 
the same conclusion—" I am the same person 
off the stage that I am on" The inference, at 
first sight, seems identical ; but examine it a 
little, and it confesses only, that the one per- 
former was never, and the other always, acting. 

And in truth this was the charm of Elliston's 
private deportment. You had spirited per- 
formance always going on before your eyes, 
with nothing to pay. As where a monarch 
takes up his casual abode for a night, the 
poorest hovel which he honours by his sleeping 
in it, becomes ipso facto for that time a palace ; 
so wherever Elliston walked, sate, or stood 
still, there was the theatre. He carried about 
with him his pit, boxes, and galleries, and set 
up his portable playhouse at corners of streets, 
and in the market-places. Upon flintiest pave- 



14 



ELIA. 



ments he trod the boards still ; and if his 
theme chanced to be passionate, the green 
baize carpet of tragedy spontaneously rose 
beneath his feet. Now this was hearty, and 
showed a love for his art. So Apelles always 
painted — in thought. ' So G. D. always poetises. 
I hate a lukewarm artist. I have known actors 
— and some of them of Elliston's OAvn stamp 
— who shall have agreeably been amusing you 
in the part of a rake or a coxcomb, through 
the two or three hours of their dramatic exist- 
ence ; but no sooner does the curtain fall with 
its leaden clatter, but a spirit of lead seems 
to seize on all their faculties. They emerge 
sour, morose persons, intolerable to their 
families, servants, &c. Another shall have 
been expanding your heart with generous 
deeds and sentiments, till it even beats with 
yearnings of universal sympathy ; you abso- 
lutely long to go home and do some good action. 
The play seems tedious, till you can get fairly 
out of the house, and realise your laudable 
intentions. At length the final bell rings, and 
this cordial representative of all that is amiable 
in human breasts steps forth — a miser. Elliston 
was more of a piece. Did he play Ranger ? 
and did Ranger fill the general bosom of the 
town with satisfaction ? why should he not be 
Ranger, and diffuse the same cordial satisfac- 
tion among his private circles ? with his tempera- 
ment, his animal spirits, his good-nature, his 
follies perchance, could he do better than 
identify himself with his impersonation ? Are 
we to like a pleasant rake, or coxcomb, on the 
stage, and give ourselves airs of aversion for 
the identical character, presented to us in 
actual life ? or what would the performer have 
gained by divesting himself of the impersona- 
tion ? Could the man Elliston have been 
essentially different from his part, even if he 
had avoided to reflect to us studiously, in 
private circles, the airy briskness, the for- 
wardness, and 'scape-goat trickeries of his 
prototype ? 

" But there is something not natural in this 
everlasting acting ; we want the real man." 

Are you quite sure that it is not the man 
himself, whom you cannot, or will not see, 
under some adventitious trappings, which, 
nevertheless, sit not at all inconsistently upon 
him s What if it is the nature of some men to 
be highly artificial ? The fault is least repre- 



hensible in players. Cibber was his own Fop- 
pington, with almost as much wit as Yanburgh 
could add to it. 

" My conceit of his person," — it is Ben Jon- 
son speaking of Lord Bacon, — " was never 
increased towards him by his place or honours. 
But I have, and do reverence him for the 
greatness, that was only proper, to himself ; in 
that he seemed to me ever one of the greatest 
men, that had been in many ages. In his 
adversity I ever prayed that Heaven would 
give him strength ; for greatness he could not 
want." 

The quality here commended was scarcely 
less conspicuous in the subject of these idle 
reminiscences than in my Lord Verulam. 
Those who have imagined that an unexpected 
elevation to the direction of a great London 
Theatre affected the consequence of Elliston, 
or at all changed his nature, knew not the 
essential greatness of the man whom they dis- 
parage. It was my fortune to encounter him 
near St. Dunstan's Church (which, with its 
punctual giants, is now no more than dust and 
a shadow), on the morning of his election to 
that high office. Grasping my hand with a 
look of significance, he only uttered, — " Have 
you heard the news?" — then, with another 
look following up the blow, he subjoined, " I 
am the future Manager of Drury Lane Theatre." 
— Breathless as he saw me, he stayed not for 
congratulation or reply, but mutely stalked 
away, leaving me to chew upon his new-blown 
dignities at leisure. In fact, nothing could be 
said to it. Expressive silence alone could muse 
his praise. This was in his great style. 

But was he less great, (be witness, O ye 
Powers of Equanimity, that supported in the 
ruins of Carthage the consular exile, and more 
recently transmuted, for a more illustrious 
exile, the barren constableship of Elba into an 
image of Imperial France), when, in melan- 
choly after-years, again, much near the same 
spot, I met him, when that sceptre had been 
wrested from his hand, and his dominion was 
curtailed to the petty managership, and part 
proprietorship, of the small Olympic, his Elba ? 
He still played nightly upon the boards of 
Drury, but in parts, alas ! allotted to him, not 
magnificently distributed by him. Waiving 
his great loss as nothing, and magnificently 
sinking the sense of fallen material grandeur 



ELLISTONIANA. 



in the more liberal resentment of depreciations 
done to his more lofty intellectual pretensions, 
"Have you heard" (his customary exordium) 
— " have you heard," said he, " how they treat 
me ? they put me in comedy" Thought I — but 
his finger on his lips forbade any verbal inter- 
ruption— " where could they have put you 
better ?" Then, after a pause — " Where I 
formerly played Romeo, I now play Mercutio," 
— and so again he stalked away, neither stay- 
ing, nor caring for, responses. 

0, it was a rich scene, — but Sir A C , 

the best of story-tellers and surgeons, who 
mends a lame narrative almost as well as he 
sets a fracture, alone could do justice to it, — 
that I was a witness to, in the tarnished room 
(that had once been green) of that same little 
Olympic. There, after his deposition from 
Imperial Drury, he substituted a throne. That 
Olympic Hill was his "highest heaven ;" him- 
self " Jove in his chair." There he sat in state, 
while before him, on complaint of prompter, 
was brought for judgment — how shall I de- 
scribe her ? — one of those little tawdry things 
that flirt at the tails of choruses — a probationer 
for the town, in either of its senses — the 
pertest little drab — a dirty fringe and appen- 
dage of the lamps' smoke — who, it seems, on 
some disapprobation expressed by a " highly 
respectable" audience, — had precipitately 
quitted her station on the boards, and with- 
drawn her small talents in disgust. 

" And how dare you," said her manager, — 
assuming a censorial severity, which would 
have crushed the confidence of a Vestris, and 
disarmed that beautiful Rebel herself of her 
professional caprices — I verily believe, he 
thought her standing before him — " how dare 
you, Madam, withdraw yourself, without a 
notice, from your theatrical duties %" "I was 
hissed, Sir." " And you have the presumption 
to decide upon the taste of the town?" "I 
don't know that, Sir, but I will never stand to 
be hissed," was the subjoinder of young Con- 
fidence — when gathering up his features into 
one significant mass of wonder, pity, and ex- 
postulatory indignation — in a lesson never to 
have been lost upon a creature less forward 
than she who stood before him — his words 
were these : " They have hissed me" 



'Twas the identical argument a fortiori, which 
the son of Peleus uses to Lycaon trembling 
under his lance, to persuade him to take his 
destiny with a good grace. " I too am mortal." 
And it is to be believed that in both cases the 
rhetoric missed of its application, for want of 
a proper understanding with the faculties of 
the respective recipients. 

" Quite an Opera pit," he said to me, as 
he was courteously conducting me over the 
benches of his Surrey Theatre, the last re- 
treat, and recess, of his every-day waning 
grandeur. 

Those who knew Elliston, will know the 
manner in which he pronounced the latter sen- 
tence of the few words I am about to record. 
One proud day to me he took his roast mutton 
with us in the Temple, to which I had super- 
added a preliminary haddock. After a rather 
plentiful partaking of the meagre banquet, not 
unrefreshed with the humbler sort of liquors, 
I made a sort of apology for the humility of 
the fare, observing that for my own part I 
never ate but one dish at dinner. a I too 
never eat but one thing at dinner," — was his 
reply — then after a pause — " reckoning fish as 
nothing." The manner was all. It was as if 
by one peremptory sentence he had decreed 
the annihilation of all the savoury esculents, 
which the pleasant and nutritious-food-giving 
Ocean pours forth upon poor humans from her 
watery bosom. This was greatness, tempered 
with considerate tenderness to the feelings of 
his scanty but welcoming entertainer. 

Great wert thou in thy life, Robert "William 
Elliston ! and not lessened in thy death, if report 
speak truly, which says that thou didst direct 
that thy mortal remains should repose under 
no inscription but one of pure Latinity. Clas- 
sical was thy bringing up ! and beautiful was 
the feeling on thy last bed, which, connecting 
the man with the boy, took thee back to thy 
latest exercise of imagination, to the days 
when, undreaming of Theatres and Manager- 
ships, thou wert a scholar, and an early ripe 
one, under the roofs builded by the munificent 
and pious Colet. For thee the Pauline Muses 
weep. In elegies, that shall silence this crude 
prose, they shall celebrate thy praise. 



16 



ELIA. 



THE OLD MARGATE HOY. 



I am fond of passing my vacations (I believe 
I have said so before) at one or other of the Uni- 
versities. Next to these my choice would fix me 
at some woody spot, such as the neighbour- 
hood of Henley affords in abundance, on the 
banks of my beloved Thames. But somehow 
or other my cousin contrives to wheedle me, 
once in three or .four seasons, to a watering- 
place. Old attachments cling to her in spite of 
experience. "We have been dull at Worthing 
one summer, duller at Brighton another, dullest 
at Eastbourn a third, and are at this moment 
doing dreary penance at — Hastings ! — and all 
because we were happy many years ago for 
a brief week at Margate. That was our first 
sea-side experiment, and many circumstances 
combined to make it the most agreeable holi- 
day of .my life. We had neither of us seen the 
sea, and we had never been from home so long 
together in company. 

Can I forget thee, thou old Margate Hoy, 
with thy weather-beaten, sun-burnt captain, 
and his rough accommodations — ill exchanged 
for the foppery and fresh- water niceness of the 
modern steam-packet ? To the winds and waves 
thou committedst thy goodly freightage, and 
didst ask no aid of magic fumes, and spells, and 
boiling caldrons. With the gales of heaven 
thou wentest swimmingly ; or, when it was 
their pleasure, stoodest still with sailor-like 
patience. Thy course was natural, not forced, 
as in a hot-bed ; nor didst thou go poisoning 
the breath of ocean with sulphureous smoke — 
a great sea chimera, chimneying and furnacing 
the deep ; or liker to that fire-god parching up 
Scamander. 

Can I forget thy honest, yet slender crew, 
with their coy reluctant responses (yet to the 
suppression of anything like contempt) to the 
raw questions, which we of the great city would 
be ever and anon putting to them, as to the 
uses of this or that strange naval implement ? 
'Specially can I forget thee, thou happy me- 



dium, thou shade of refuge between us and 
them, conciliating interpreter of their skill to 
our simplicity, comfortable ambassador be- 
tween sea and land ! — whose sailor-trousers 
did not more convincingly assure thee to be 
an adopted denizen of the former, than thy 
white cap, and whiter apron over them, with 
thy neat-figured practice in thy culinary voca- 
tion, bespoke thee to have been of inland nur- 
ture heretofore — a master cook of Eastcheap ? 
How busily didst thou ply thy multifarious 
occupation, cook, mariner, attendant, chamber- 
lain : here, there, like another Ariel, flaming 
at once about all parts of the deck, yet with 
kindlier ministrations — not to assist the tem- 
pest, but, as if touched with a kindred sense of 
our infirmities, to soothe the qualms which 
that untried motion might haply raise in our 
crude land-fancies. And when the o'er- washing 
billows drove us below deck (for it was far 
gone in October, and we had stiff and blowing 
weather), how did thy officious ministerings, 
still catering for our comfort, with cards, and 
cordials, and thy more cordial conversation, 
alleviate the closeness and the confinement of 
thy else (truth to say) not very savoury, nor 
very inviting, little cabin ? 

With these additaments to boot, we had on 
board a fellow-passenger, whose discourse in 
verity might have beguiled a longer voyage than 
we meditated, and have made mirth and wonder 
abound as far as the Azores. He was a dark, 
Spanish-complexioned young man, remarkably 
handsome, with an officer-like assurance, and 
an insuppressible volubility of assertion. He 
was, in fact, the greatest liar I had met with 
then, or since. He was^none of your hesitating, 
half story-tellers (a most painful description 
of mortals) who go on sounding your belief, 
and only giving you as much as they see you 
can swallow at a time — the nibbling pick- 
pockets of your patience — but one who com- 
mitted downright, day-light depredations upon 



THE OLD MARGATE HOY. 



his neighbour's faith. He did not stand shiver- 
ing upon the brink, but was a hearty, thorough- 
paced liar, and plunged at once into the depths 
of your credulity. I partly believe, he made 
pretty sure of his company. Not many rich, 
not many wise, or learned, composed at that 
time the common stowage of a Margate packet. 
We were, I am afraid, a set of as unseasoned 
Londoners (let our enemies give it a worse 
name) as Aldermanbury, or Watling-street, 
at that time of day could have supplied. There 
might be an exception or two among us, but 
I scorn to make any invidious distinctions 
among such a jolly, companionable ship's com- 
pany, as those were whom I sailed with. Some- 
thing too must be conceded to the Genius Loci. 
Had the confident fellow told us half the legends 
on land, which he favoured us with on the other 
element, I flatter myself the good sense of 
most of us would have revolted. But we were 
in a new world, with everything unfamiliar 
about us, and the time and place disposed us 
to the reception of any prodigious marvel 
whatsoever. Time has obliterated from my 
memory much of his wild fablings ; and the 
rest would appear but dull, as written, and to 
be read on shore. He had been Aide-de-camp 
(among other rare accidents and fortunes) to 
a Persian Prince, and at one blow had stricken 
off the head of the King of Carimania on horse- 
back. He, of course, married the Prince's 
daughter. I forget what unlucky turn in the 
politics of that court, combining with the loss 
of his consort, was the reason of his quitting 
Persia ; but, with the rapidity of a magician, 
he transported himself, along with his hearers, 
back to England, where we still found him in 
the confidence of great ladies. There was 
some story of a princess — Elizabeth, if I re- 
member — having intrusted to his care an ex- 
traordinary casket of jewels, upon some extra- 
ordinary occasion — but, as I am not certain of 
the name or circumstance at this distance of 
time, I must leave it to the Royal daughters 
of England to settle the honour among them- 
selves in private. I cannot call to mind half 
his pleasant wonders ; but I perfectly remem- 
ber, that in the course of his travels he had 
seen a phoenix ; and he obligingly undeceived 
us of the vulgar error, that there is but one of 
that species at a time, assuring us that they 

were not uncommon in some parts of Upper 
[second series.] 



Egypt. Hitherto he had found the most im- 
plicit listeners. His dreaming fancies had 
transported us beyond the " ignorant present." 
But when (still hardying more and more in 
his triumphs over our simplicity) he went on to 
affirm that he had actually sailed through the 
legs of the Colossus at Rhodes, it really became 
necessary to make a stand. And here I must 
do justice to the good sense and intrepidity of 
one of our party, a youth, that had hitherto 
been one of his most deferential auditors, who, 
from his recent reading, made bold to assure 
the gentleman, that there must be some mis- 
take, as " the Colossus in question had been 
destroyed long since ;" to whose opinion, de- 
livered with all modesty, our hero was obliging 
enough to concede thus much, that " the figure 
was indeed a little damaged." This was the 
only opposition he met with, and it did not 
at all seem to stagger him, for he proceeded 
with his fables, which the same youth ap- 
peared to swallow with still more complacency 
than ever, — confirmed, as it were, by the ex- 
treme candour of that concession. With these 
prodigies he wheedled us on till we came in 
sight of the Reculvers, which one of our own 
company (having been the voyage before) im- 
mediately recognising, and pointing out to us, 
was considered by us as no ordinary seaman. 

All this time sat upon the edge of the deck 
quite a different character; It was a lad, ap- 
parently very poor, very infirm, and very 
patient. His eye was ever on the sea, with a 
smile ; and, if he caught now and then some 
snatches of these wild legends, it was by acci- 
dent, and they seemed not to concern him. 
The waves to him whispered more pleasant 
stories. He was as one, being with us, but not 
of us. He heard the bell of dinner ring with- 
out stirring ; and when some of us pulled out 
our private stores — our cold meat and our 
salads — he produced none, and seemed to want 
none. Only a solitary biscuit he had laid in ; 
provision for the one or two days and nights, 
to which these vessels then were oftentimes 
obliged to prolong their voyage. Upon a 
nearer acquaintance with him, which he seemed 
neither to court nor decline, we learned that he 
was going to Margate, with the hope of being 
admitted into the Infirmary there for sea- 
bathing. His disease was a scrofula, which 
appeared to have eaten all over him. He 



18 



ELIA. 



expressed great hopes of a cure ; and when 
we asked him, whether he had any friends 
where he was going, he replied, " he had no 
friends." 

These pleasant, and some mournful passages 
with the first sight of the sea, co-operating 
with youth, and a sense of holidays, and out- 
of-door adventure, to me that had been pent 
up in populous cities for many months before, 
— have left upon my mind the fragrance as of 
summer days gone by, bequeathing nothing 
but their remembrance for cold and wintry 
hours to chew upon. 

Will it be thought a digression (it may spare 
some unwelcome comparisons), if I endeavour 
to account for the dissatisfaction which I have 
heard so many persons confess to have felt 
(as I did myself feel in part on this occasion), 
at the sight of the sea for the first time ? I think 
the reason usually given — referring to the in- 
capacity of actual objects for satisfying our 
preconceptions of them — scarcely goes deep 
enough into the question. Let the same per- 
son see a lion, an elephant, a mountain, for the 
first time in his life, and he shall perhaps feel 
himself a little mortified. The things do not 
fill up that space, which the idea of them 
seemed to take up in his mind. But they have 
still a correspondency to his first notion, and 
in time grow up to it, so as to produce a very 
similar impression : enlarging themselves (if I 
may say so) upon familiarity. But the sea 
remains a disappointment. — Is it not, that in 
the latter we had expected to behold (absurdly, 
I grant, but, I am afraid, by the law of ima- 
gination, unavoidably) not a definite object, 
as those wild beasts, or that mountain corn- 
passable by the eye, but all the sea at once, the 

COMMENSURATE ANTAGONIST OF THE EARTH? 

I do not say we tell ourselves so much, but the 
craving of the mind is to be satisfied with 
nothing less. I will suppose the case of a 
young person of fifteen (as I then was) know- 
ing nothing of the sea, but from description. 
He comes to it for the first time — all that he 
has been reading of it all his life, and that the 
most enthusiastic part of life, — all he has 
gathered from narratives of wandering sea- 
men, — what he has gained from true voyages, 
and what he cherishes as credulously from 
romance and poetry, — crowding their images, 
and exacting strange tributes from expectation. 



— He thinks of the great deep, and of those 
who go down unto it ; of its thousand isles, 
and of the vast continents it washes ; of its 
receiving the mighty Plate, or Orellana, into 
its bosom, without disturbance, or sense of 
augmentation ; of Biscay swells, and the 
mariner 

For many a day, and many a dreadful night, 
Incessant labouring round the stormy Cape ; 

of fatal rocks, and the "still- vexed Ber- 
moothes ;" of great whirlpools, and the water- 
spout ; of sunken ships, and sumless treasures 
swallowed up in the unrestoring depths ; of 
fishes and quaint monsters, to which all that is 
terrible on earth — 

Be but as buggs to frighten babes withal, 
Compared with the creatures in the sea's entral ; 

of naked savages, and Juan Fernandez ; of 
pearls, and shells ; of coral beds, and of en- 
chanted isles ; of mermaids' grots — 

I do not assert that in sober earnest he ex 
pects to be shown all these wonders at once, 
but he is under the tyranny of a mighty faculty, 
which haunts him with confused hints and 
shadows of all these ; and when the actual 
object opens first upon him, seen (in tame 
weather, too, most likely) from our unromantic 
coasts — a speck, a slip of sea- water, as it shows 
to him — what can it prove but a very unsatis~ 
fying and even diminutive entertainment ? Or 
if he has come to it from the mouth of a river, 
was it much more than the river widening? 
and, even out of sight of land, what had he 
but a flat watery horizon about him, nothing 
comparable to the vast o'er-curtaining sky, his 
familiar object, seen daily without dread or 
amazement ? — "Who, in similar circumstances, 
has not been tempted to exclaim with Charoba* 
in the poem of Gebir, 

Is this the mighty ocean ? is this all ? 

I love town, or country ; but this detestable 
Cinque Port is neither. I hate these scrubbed 
shoots, thrusting out their starved foliage from 
between the horrid fissures of dusty innutri- 
tious rocks ; which the amateur calls " verdure 
to the edge of the sea." I require woods, and 
they show me stunted coppices. I cry out for 
the water-brooks, and pant for fresh streams, 
and inland murmurs. I cannot stand all day 
on the naked beach, watching the capricious! 
hues of the sea, shifting like the colours of a 



THE OLD MARGATE HOY. 



19 



dying mullet. I am tired of looking out at the 
windows of this island-prison. I would fain 
retire into the interior of my cage. While I 
gaze upon the sea, I want to be on it, over it, 
across it. It binds me in with chains, as of 
iron. My thoughts are abroad. I should not 
so feel in Staffordshire. There is no home for 
me here. There is no sense of home at Has- 
tings. It is a place of fugitive resort, an hete- 
rogeneous assemblage of sea-mews and stock- 
brokers, Amphitrites of the town, and misses 
that coquet with the Ocean. If it were what 
it was in its primitive shape, and what it ought 
to have remained, a fair, honest fishing-town, 
and no more, it were something— with a few 
straggling fishermen's huts scattered about, 
artless as its cliffs, and with their materials 
filched from them, it were something. I could 
abide to dwell with Meschek ; to assort with 
fisher-swains, and smugglers. There are, or I 
dream there are, many of this latter occupa- 
tion here. Their faces become the place. I 
like a smuggler. He is the only honest thief. 
He robs nothing but the revenue, — an abstrac- 
tion I never greatly cared about. I could go 
out with them in their mackarel boats, or about 
their less ostensible business, with some satis- 
faction. I can even tolerate those poor victims 
to monotony, who from day to day pace along 
the beach, in endless progress -and recurrence, 
to watch their illicit countrymen — townsfolk 
or brethren perchance — whistling to the sheath- 
ing and unsheathing of their cutlasses (their 
only solace), who under the mild name of pre- 
ventive service, keep up a legitimated civil 
warfare in the deplorable absence of a foreign 
one, to show their detestation of run hollands, 
and zeal for Old England. But it is the visit- 
ants from town, that come here to say that 
they have be.en here, with no more relish of 
the sea than a pond-perch or a dace might be 
supposed to have, that are my aversion. I 
feel like a foolish dace in these regions, and 
have as little toleration for myself here, as for 
them. What can they want here ? if they had 
a true relish of the ocean, why have they 
brought all this land luggage with them ? or 
why pitch their civilised tents in the desert ? 
What mean these scanty book-rooms — marine 
libraries as they entitle them — if the sea were, 



as they would have us believe, a book " to read 
strange matter in?" what are their foolish 
concert-rooms, if they come, as they would 
fain be thought to do,, to listen to the music of 
the waves ? All is false and hollow pretension. 
They come, because it is the fashion, and to 
spoil the nature of the place. They are, mostly, 
as I have said, stock-brokers ; but I have 
watched the better sort of them — now and 
then, an honest citizen (of the old stamp), in 
the simplicity of his heart, shall bring down 
his wife and daughters, to taste the sea breezes. 
I always know the date of their arrival. It is 
easy to see it in their countenance. A day or 
two they go wandering on the shingles, picking 
up cockle-shells, and thinking them great 
things ; but, in a poor week, imagination 
slackens : they begin to discover that cockles 
produce no pearls, and then — then ! — if I 
could interpret for the pretty creatures (I 
know they have not the courage to confess it 
themselves), how gladly would they exchange 
their sea-side rambles for a Sunday walk on 
the green -sward of their accustomed Twicken- 
ham meadows ! 

I would ask of one of these sea-charmed 
emigrants, who think they truly love the sea, 
with its wild usages, what would their feelings 
be, if some of the unsophisticated aborigines 
of this place, encouraged by their courteous 
questionings here, should venture, on the faith 
of such assured sympathy between them, to 
return the visit, and come up to see — London. 
I must imagine them with their fishing-tackle 
on their back, as we carry our town necessa- 
ries. What a sensation would it cause inLoth- 
bury ? What vehement laughter would it not 
excite among 
The daughters of Cheapside, and wives of Lomhard-street ! 

I am sure that no town-bred or inland-born 
subjects can feel their true and natural nou- 
rishment at these sea-places. Nature, where 
she does not mean us for mariners and vaga- 
bonds, bids us stay at home. The salt foam 
seems to nourish a spleen. I am not half so 
good-natured as by the milder waters of my 
natural river. I would exchange these sea- 
gulls for swans, and scud a swallow for ever 
about the banks of Thamesis. 



*20 



ELIA. 



THE CONVALESCENT. 



A pretty severe fit of indisposition which, 
under the name of a nervous fever, has made 
a prisoner of me for some weeks past, and is 
hut slowly leaving me, has reduced me to an 
incapacity of reflecting upon any topic foreign 
to itself. Expect no healthy conclusions from 
me this month, reader ; I can offer you only 
sick men's dreams 

And truly the whole state of sickness is 
such ; for what else is it hut a magnificent 
dream for a man to lie a-hed, and draw day- 
light curtains ahout him ; and, shutting out 
the sun, to induce a total oblivion of all the 
works which are going on under it ? To be- 
come insensible to all the operations of life, 
except the beatings of one feeble pulse ? 

If there be a regal solitude, it is a sick bed. 
How the patient lords it there ; what caprices 
he acts without control ! how king-like he 
sways his pillow — tumbling, and tossing, and 
shifting, and lowering, and thumping, and 
flatting, and moulding it, to the ever- varying 
requisitions of his throbbing temples. 

He changes sides oftener than a politician. 
Now he lies full length, then half-length, 
obliquely, transversely, head and feet quite 
across the bed ; and none accuses him of ter- 
giversation. Within the four curtains he is 
absolute. They are his Mare Clausum. 

How sickness enlarges the dimensions of a 
man's self to himself ! he is his own exclusive 
object. Supreme selfishness is inculcated upon 
him as his only duty. 'Tis the Two Tables of 
the Law to him. He has nothing to think of 
but how to get well. What passes out of doors, 
or within them, so he hear not the jarring of 
them, affects him not. 

A little while ago he was greatly concerned 
in the event of a lawsuit, which was to be the 
making or the marring of his dearest friend. 
He was to be seen trudging about upon this 
man's errand to fifty quarters of the town at 
once, jogging this witness, refreshing that 



solicitor. The cause was to come on yester- 
day. He is absolutely as indifferent to tho 
decision, as if it were a question to be tried at 
Pekin. Peradventure from some whispering, 
going on about the house, not intended for his 
hearing, he picks up enough to make him un- 
derstand, that things went cross-grained in the 
Court yesterday, and his friend is ruined. But 
the word " friend," and the word " ruin," dis- 
turb him no more than so much jargon. He 
is not to think of anything but how to got 
better. 

What a world of foreign cares are merged 
in that absorbing consideration ! 

He has put on the strong armour of sick- 
ness, he is wrapped in the callous hide of 
suffering ; he keeps his sympathy, like some 
curious vintage, under trusty lock and key, for 
his own use only. 

He lies pitying himself, honing and moaning 
to himself ; he yearneth over himself ; his 
bowels are even melted within him, to think 
what he suffers ; he is not ashamed to weep 
over himself. 

He is for ever plotting how to do some good 
to himself ; studying little stratagems and arti- 
ficial alleviations. 

He makes the most of himself ; dividing him- 
self, by an allowable fiction, into as many dis- 
tinct individuals, as he hath sore and sorrow- 
ing members. Sometimes he meditates — as of 
a thing apart from him— upon his poor aching 
head, and that dull pain which, dozing or 
waking, lay in it all the past night like a log, 
or palpable substance of pain, not to be re- 
moved without opening the very skull, as it 
seemed, to take it thence. Or he pities his 
long, clammy, attenuated fingers. He com- 
passionates himself all over ; and his bed is a 
very discipline of humanity, and tender heart. 

He is his own sympathiser ; and instinctively 
feels that none can so well perform that office 
for him. He cares for few spectators to his 



THE CONVALESCENT. 



21 



tragedy. Only that punctual face of the old 
nurse pleases him, that announces his broths 
and his cordials. He likes it because it is so 
unmoved, and because he can pour forth his 
feverish ejaculations before it as unreservedly 
as to his bed-post. 

To the world's business he is dead. He 
understands not what the callings and occupa- 
tions of mortals are ; only he has a glimmering 
conceit of some such thing, when the doctor 
makes his daily call : and even in the lines on 
that busy face he reads no multiplicity of 
patients, but solely conceives of himself as the 
sick man. To what other uneasy couch the 
good man is hastening, when he slips out of 
his chamber, folding up his thin douceur so 
carefully, for fear of rustling — is no speculation 
which he can at present entertain. He thinks 
only of the regular return of the same pheno- 
menon at the same hour to-morrow. 

Household rumours touch him not. Some 
faint murmur, indicative of life going on 
within the house, soothes him, while he knows 
not distinctly what it is. He is not to know 
anything, not to think of anything. Servants 
gliding up or down the distant staircase, tread- 
ing as upon velvet, gently keep his ear awake, 
so long as he troubles not himself further than 
with some feeble guess at their errands. Ex- 
acter knowledge would be a burthen to him : 
he can just endure the pressure of conjecture. 
He opens his eye faintly at the dull stroke of 
the muffled knocker, and closes it again with- 
out asking " Who was it ? " He is flattered 
by a general notion that inquiries are making 
after him, but he cares not to know the name 
of the inquirer. In the general stillness, and 
awful hush of the house, he lies in state, and 
feels his sovereignty. 

To be sick is to enjoy monarchal prerogatives. 
Compare the silent tread, and quiet ministry, 
almost by the eye only, with wnich he is served 
--with the careless demeanour, the unceremo- 
nious goings in and out (slapping of doors, or 
leaving them open) of the very same attend- 
ants, when he is getting a little better — and 
you will confess, that from the bed of sickness 
(throne let me rather call it) to the elbow- 
chair of convalescence, is a fall from dignity, 
amounting to a deposition. 

How convalescence shrinks a man back to 
his pristine stature I where is now the space, 



which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the 
family's eye ? 

The scene of his regalities, his sick room, 
which was his presence chamber, where he 
lay and acted his despotic fancies — how is it 
reduced to a common bed-room ! The trim- 
ness of the very bed has something petty and 
unmeaning about it. It is made every day. 
How unlike to that wavy, many-furrowed, 
oceanic surface, which it presented so short a 
time since, when to make it was a service not 
to be thought of at oftener than three or four 
day revolutions, when the patient was with 
pain and grief to be lifted for a little while 
out of it, to submit to the encroachments of 
unwelcome neatness, and decencies which his 
shaken frame deprecated ; then to be lifted 
into it again, for another three or four days' 
respite, to flounder it out of shape again, while 
every fresh furrow was an historical record of 
some shifting posture, some uneasy turning, 
some seeking for a little ease ; and the shrunken 
skin scarce told a truer story than the crumpled 
coverlid. 

Hushed are those mysterious sighs— those 
groans — so much more awful, while we knew 
not from what caverns of vast hidden suffering 
they proceeded. The Lernean pangs are 
quenched. The riddle of sickness is solved ; 
and Philoctetes is become an ordinary per- 
sonage. 

Perhaps some relic of the sick man's dream 
of greatness survives in the still lingering 
visitations of the medical attendant. But 
how is he, too, changed with everything else ! 
Can this be he — this man of news — of chat — 
of anecdote — of everything but physic — can 
this be he, who so lately came between the 
patient and his cruel enemy, as on some 
solemn embassy from Nature, erecting herself 
into a high mediating party ? — Pshaw ! 'tis 
some old woman. 

Farewell with him all that made sickness 
pompous— the spell that hushed the household 
— the desert-like stillness, felt throughout its 
inmost chambers — the mute attendance — the 
inquiry by looks — the still softer delicacies of 
self-attention— the sole and single eye of dis- 
temper alonely fixed upon itself — world- 
thoughts excluded — the man a world unto 
himself — his own theatre — 

What a speck is he dwindled into ! 



22 



ELIA. 



In this flat swamp of convalescence, left by 
the ebb of sickness, yet far enough from the 
terra firma of established health, your note, 
dear Editor, reached me, requesting — an article. 
In Articulo Mortis, thought I ; but it is some- 
thing hard — and the quibble, wretched as it 
was, relieved me. The summons, unseason- 
able as it appeared, seemed to link me on 
again to the petty businesses of life, which I 
had lost sight of; a gentle call to activity, 
however trivial ; a wholesome weaning from 
that preposterous dream of self-absorption — 
the puffy state of sickness — in which I confess 



to have lain so long, insensible to the magazines 
and monarchies, of the world alike ; to its 
laws, and to its literature. The hypochondriac 
flatus is subsiding ; the acres, which in imagi- 
nation I had spread over — for the sick man 
swells in the sole contemplation of his single 
sufferings, till he becomes a Tityus to himself 
— are wasting to a span ; and for the giant of 
self-importance, which I was so lately, you 
have me once again in my natural pretensions 
— the lean and meagre figure of your insignifi- 
cant Essayist. 



SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS. 



So far from the position holding true, that 
great wit (or genius, in our modern way of 
speaking) has a necessary alliance with in- 
sanity, the greatest wits, on the contrary, will 
ever be found to be the sanest writers. It is 
impossible for the mind to conceive of a mad 
Shakspeare. The greatness of wit, by which 
the poetic talent is here chiefly to be under- 
stood, manifests itself in the admirable balance 
of all the faculties. Madness is the dispro- 
portionate straining or excess of any one of 
them. " So strong a wit," says Cowley, speak- 
ing of a poetical friend, 

" did Nature to him frame, 

As all things but his judgment overcame ; 
His judgment like the heavenly moon did show, 
Tempering that mighty sea below." 

The ground of the mistake is, that men, finding 
in the raptures of the higher poetry a condition 
of exaltation, to which they have no parallel 
in their own experience, besides the spurious 
resemblance of it in dreams and fevers, impute 
a state of dreaminess and fever to the poet. 
But the true poet dreams being awake. He is 
not possessed by his subject, but has dominion 
over it. In the groves of Eden he walks fami- 
liar as in his native paths. He ascends the 
empyrean heaven, and is not intoxicated. He 
treads the burning marl without dismay ; he 
wins his flight without self-loss through realms 
of chaos " and old night." Or if, abandoning 
himself to that severer chaos of a " human 



mind untuned," he is content awhile to be mad 
with Lear, or to hate mankind (a sort of mad 
ness) with Timon, neither is that madness, nor 
this misanthropy, so unchecked, but that, — 
never letting the reins of reason wholly go, 
while most he seems to do so, — he has his 
better genius still whispering at his ear, with 
the good servant Kent suggesting saner coun- 
sels, or with the honest steward Flavius re- 
commending kindlier resolutions. "Where he 
seems most to recede from humanity, he will 
be found the truest to it. From beyond the 
scope of Nature if he summon possible exist- 
ences, he subjugates them to the law of her 
consistency. He is beautifully loyal to that 
sovereign directress, even when he appears 
most to betray and desert her. His ideal 
tribes submit to policy ; his very monsters are 
tamed to his hand, even as that wild sea-brood, 
shepherded by Proteus. He tames, and he 
clothes them with attributes of flesh and 
blood, till they wonder at themselves, like 
Indian Islanders forced to submit to European 
vesture. Caliban, the "Witches, are as true to 
the laws of their own nature (ours with a 
difference), as Othello, Hamlet, and Macbeth. 
Herein the great and the little wits are dif- 
ferenced ; that if the latter wander ever so 
little from nature or actual existence, they 
lose themselves, and their readers. Their 
phantoms are lawless ; their visions night- 
mares. They do not create, which implies 



SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS. 



23 



shaping and consistency. Their imaginations 
are not active — for to be active is to call some- 
thing into act and form — but passive, as men 
in sick dreams. For the super-natural, or 
something super-added to what we know of 
nature, they give you the plainly non-natural. 
And if this were all, and that these mental 
hallucinations were discoverable only in the 
treatment of subjects out of nature, or tran- 
scending it, the judgment might with some 
plea be pardoned if it ran riot, and a little 
wantonised : but even in the describing of 
real and every-day life, that which is before 
their eyes, one of these lesser wits shall more 
deviate from nature — show more of that in- 
consequence, which has a natural alliance 
with frenzy,— than a great genius in his " mad- 
dest fits," as Withers somewhere calls them. 
We appeal to any one that is acquainted with 
the common run of Lane's novels, — as they 
existed some twenty or thirty years back, — 
those scanty intellectual viands of the whole 
female reading public, till a happier genius 
arose, and expelled for ever the innutritious 
phantoms, — whether he has not found his 
brain more " betossed," his memory more 
puzzled, his sense of when and where more 
confounded, among the improbable events, the 
incoherent incidents, the inconsistent charac- 
ters, or no-characters, of some third-rate love- 
intrigue— where the persons shall be a Lord 
Glendamour and a Miss Rivers, and the scene 
only alternate between Bath and Bond-street 
— a more bewildering dreaminess induced upon 
him, than he has felt wandering over all the 
fairy grounds of Spenser. In the productions 
we refer to, nothing but names and places is 
familiar ; the persons are neither of this world 
nor of any other conceivable one ; an endless 
string of activities without purpose, of purposes 
destitute of motive : — we meet phantoms in 
our known walks ; fantasques only christened 
In the poet we have names which announce 
fiction ; and we have absolutely no place at all, 



for the things and persons of the Fairy Queen 
prate not of their " whereabout." But in their 
inner nature, and the law of their speech and 
actions, we are at home and upon acquainted 
ground. The one turns life into a dream ; the 
other to the wildest dreams gives the sobrieties 
of every-day occurrences. By what subtle 
art of tracing the mental processes it is 
effected, we are not philosophers enough to 
explain, but in that wonderful episode of the 
cave of Mammon, in which the Money God 
appears first in the lowest form of a miser, is 
then a worker of metals, and becomes the god 
of all the treasures of the world ; and has a 
daughter, Ambition, before whom all the world 
kneels for favours — with the Hesperian fruit, 
the waters of Tantalus, with Pilate washing 
his hands vainly, but not impertinently, in the 
same stream — that we should be at one moment 
in the cave of an old hoarder of treasures, at 
the next at the forge of the Cyclops, in a palace 
and yet in hell, all at once, with the shifting 
mutations of the most rambling dream, and 
our judgment yet all the time awake, and 
neither able nor willing to detect the fallacy, — 
is a proof of that hidden sanity which still 
guides the poet in the widest seeming-aberra- 
tions. 

It is not enough to say that the whole episode 
is a copy of the mind's conceptions in sleep ; 
it is, in some sort — but what a copy ! Let the 
most romantic of us, that has been entertained 
all night with the spectacle of some wild and 
magnificent vision, recombine it in the morning, 
and try it by his waking judgemnt. That 
which appeared so shifting, and yet so coherent, 
while that faculty was passive, when it comes 
under cool examination shall appear so reason- 
less and so unlinked, that we are ashamed to 
have been so deluded ; and to have taken, 
though but in sleep, a monster for a god. But 
the transitions in this episode are every whit 
as violent as in the most extravagant dream, 
and yet the waking judgment ratifies them. 



ELI A. 



CAPTAIN JACKSON. 



Among the deaths in our obituary for this 
month, I observe with concern " At his cottage 
on the Bath road, Captain Jackson." The 
name and attribution are common enough ; but 
a feeling like reproach persuades me, that this 
could have been no other in fact than my dear 
old friend, who some five-and-twenty years ago 
rented a tenement, which he was pleased to 
dignify with the appellation here used, about 
a mile from Westbourn Green. Alack, how 
good men, and the good turns they do us, slide 
out of memory, and are recalled but by the 
surprise of some such sad memento as that 
which now lies before us ! 

He whom I mean was a retired half-pay 
officer, with a wife and two grown-up daughters, 
whom he maintained with the port and notions 
of gentlewomen upon that slender professional 
allowance. Comely girls they were too. 

And was I in danger of forgetting this man ? 
— his cheerful suppers — the noble tone of hos- 
pitality, when first you set your foot in the 
cottage — the anxious ministerings about you, 
where little or nothing (God knows) was to be 
ministered. — Althea's horn in a poor platter — 
the power of self-enchantment, by which, in 
his magnificent wishes to entertain you, he 
multiplied his means to bounties. 

You saw with your bodily eyes indeed what 
seemed a bare scrag — cold savings from the 
foregone meal — remnant hardly sufficient to 
send a mendicant from the door contented. 
But in the copious will — the revelling imagin- 
ation of your host — the "mind, the mind, 
Master Shallow," whole beeves were spread 
before you — hecatombs — no end appeared to 
the profusion. 

It was the widow's cruse — the loaves and 
fishes ; carving could not lessen, nor helping 
diminish it — the stamina were left— ^the ele- 
mental bone still flourished, divested of its 
accidents. 

" Let us live while we can," methinks I hear 



the open-handed creature exclaim ; " while we 
have, let us not want," " here is plenty left ;" 
" want for nothing" — with many more such 
hospitable sayings, the spurs of appetite, and 
old concomitants of smoking boards, and feast- 
oppressed chargers. Then sliding a slender 
ratio of Single Gloucester upon his wife's plate, 
or the daughters', he would convey the rema- 
nent rind into his own, with a merry quirk of 
" the nearer the bone," &c, and declaring that 
he universally preferred the outside. For we 
had our table distinctions, you are to know, 
and some of us in a manner sate above the 
salt. None but his guest or guests dreamed of 
tasting flesh luxuries at night, the fragments 
were vere hospitibus sacra. But of one thing 
or another there was always enough, and 
leavings : only he would sometimes finish the 
remainder crust, to show that he wished no 
savings. 

Wine we had none ; nor, except on very 
rare occasions, spirits ; but the sensation of 
wine was there. Some thin kind of ale I 
remember — " British beverage," he would say ! 
"Push about, my boys;" "Drink to your 
sweethearts, girls." At every meagre draught 
a toast must ensue, or a song. All the forms 
of good liquor were there, with none of the 
effects wanting. Shut your eyes, and you 
would swear a capacious bowl of punch was 
foaming in the centre, with beams of generous 
Port or Madeira radiating to it from each of 
the table corners. You got flustered, without 
knowing whence ; tipsy upon words ; and 
reeled under the potency of his unperforming 
Bacchanalian encouragements. 

We had our songs — "Why, Soldiers, why" 
— and the "British Grenadiers" — in which 
last we were all obliged to bear chorus. Both 
the daughters sang. Their proficiency was a 
nightly theme — the masters he had given them 
— the "no-expense" which he spared to accom- 
plish them in a science " so necessary to young 



CAPTAIN JACKSON. 



25 



women." But then — they could not sing 
u without the instrument." 

Sacred, and, by me, never-to-be-violated, 
secrets of Poverty ! Should I disclose your 
honest aims at grandeur, your makeshift efforts 
of magnificence ? Sleep, sleep, with all thy 
broken keys, if one of the bunch be extant ; 
thrummed by a thousand ancestral thumbs ; 
dear, cracked spinnet of dearer Louisa ! With- 
out mention of mine, be dumb, thou thin 
accompanier of her thinner warble ! A veil 
be spread over the dear delighted face of the 
well-deluded father, who now haply listening 
to cherubic notes, scarce feels sincerer pleasure 
than when she awakened thy time-shaken 
chords responsive to the twitterings of that 
slender image of a voice. 

We were not without our literary talk either. 
It did not extend far, but as far as it went, it 
was good. It was bottomed well ; had good 
grounds to go upon. In the cottage was a room, 
which tradition authenticated to have been 
the same in which Glover, in his occasional 
retirements, had penned the greater part of his 
Leonidas. This circumstance was nightly 
quoted, though none of the present inmates, 
that I could discover, appeared ever to have 
met with the poem in question. But that was 
no matter. Glover had written there, and the 
anecdote was pressed into the account of the 
family importance. It diffused a learned air 
through the apartment, the little-side casement 
of which (the poet's study window), opening 
upon a superb view as far as the pretty spire 
of Harrow, over domains and patrimonial 
acres, not a rood nor square yard whereof our 
host could call his own, yet gave occasion to 
an immoderate expansion of — vanity shall I 
call it ?— in his bosom, as he showed them in 
a glowing summer evening. It was all his, he 
took it all in, and communicated rich portions 
of it to his guests. It was a part of his largess, 
his hospitality ; it Avas going over his grounds ; 
he was lord for the time of showing them, 
and you the implicit lookers-up to his mag- 
nificence. 

He was a juggler, who threw mists before 
your eyes — you had no time to detect his 
fallacies. He would say, " Hand me the silver 
sugar tongs ;" and before you could discover it 
was a single spoon, and that plated, he would 
disturb and captivate your imagination by a 



misnomer of " the urn" for a tea-kettle ; or by 
calling a homely bench a sofa. Rich men 
direct you to their furniture, poor ones divert 
you from it ; he neither did one nor the other, 
but by simply assuming that everything was 
handsome about him, you were positively at a 
demur what you did, or did not see, at the 
cottage. With nothing to live on, he seemed to 
live on everything. He had a stock of wealth 
in his mind ; not that which is properly termed 
Content, for in truth he was not to be contained 
at all, but overflowed all bounds by the force 
of a magnificent self-delusion. 

Enthusiasm is catching ; and even his wife, 
a sober native of North Britain, who generally 
saw things more as they were, was not proof 
against the continual collision of his credulity. 
Her daughters were rational and discreet 
young women ; in the main, perhaps, not in- 
sensible to their true circumstances. I have 
seen them assume a thoughtful air at times. 
But such was the preponderating opulence of 
his fancy, that I am persuaded, not for any 
half hour together did they ever look their 
own prospects fairly in the face. There was 
no resisting the vortex of his temperament. 
His riotous imagination conjured up handsome 
settlements before their eyes, which kept them 
up in the eye of the world too, and seem at 
last to have realised themselves ; for they both 
have married since, I am told, more than 
respectably. 

It is long since, and my memory waxes dim 
on some subjects, or I should wish to convey 
some notion of the manner in which the 
pleasant creature described the circumstances 
of his own wedding-day. I faintly remember 
something of a chaise-and-four, in which he 
made his entry into Glasgow on that morning 
to fetch the bride home, or carry her thither, 
I forget which. It so completely made out the 
stanza of the old ballad — 

When we came down through Glasgow town, 

We were a comely sight to see ; 
My love was clad in hlack velvet, 

And I myself in cramasie. 

I suppose it was the only occasion upon 
which his own actual splendour at all corres- 
ponded with the world's notions on that subject. 
In homely cart, or travelling caravan, by what- 
ever humble vehicle they chanced to be trans- 



26 



ELIA. 



ported in less prosperous days, the ride through 
Glasgow came back upon his fancy, not as a 
humiliating contrast, but as a fair occasion for 
reverting to that one day's state. It seemed 
an " equipage etern " from which no power of 
fate or fortune, once mounted, had power 
thereafter to dislodge him. 

There is some merit in putting a handsome 
face upon indigent circumstances. To bully 
and swagger away the sense of them before 



strangers, may not be always discommendable. 
Tibbs, and Bobadil, even when detected, have 
more of our admiration than contempt. But 
for a man to put the cheat upon himself; to 
play the Bobadil at home ; and, steeped in 
poverty up to the lips, to fancy himself all the 
while chin-deep in riches, is a strain of consti- 
tutional philosophy, and a mastery over fortune, 
which was reserved for my old friend Captain 
Jackson. 



THE SUPERANNUATED MAN. 



Sera tamen respexit I A Clerk I was in London gay. 

Libertas. "Virgil. , O'Kekfk. 



If peradventure, Reader, it has been thy lot 
to waste the golden years of thy life— thy 
shining youth — in the irksome confinement of 
an office ; to have thy prison days prolonged 
through middle age down to decrepitude and 
silver hairs, without hope of release or respite ; 
to have lived to forget that there are such 
things as holidays, or to remember them but 
as the prerogatives of childhood ; then, and 
then only, will you be able to appreciate my 
deliverance. 

It is now six-and-thirty years since I took 
my seat at the desk in Mincing-lane. Melan- 
choly was the transition at fourteen from the, 
abundant playtime, and the frequently-inter- 
vening vacations of school days, to the eight, 
nine, and sometimes ten hours' a-day attend- 
ance at a counting-house. But time partially 
reconciles us to anything. I gradually became 
content — doggedly contented, as wild animals 
in cages. 

It is true I had my Sundays to myself ; but 
Sundays, admirable as the institution of them is 
for purposes of worship, are for that very reason 
the very worst adapted for days of unbending 
and recreation. In particular, there is a gloom 
for me attendant upon a city Sunday, a weight in 
the air. I miss the cheerful cries of London, the 
music, and the ballad-singers — the buzz and stir- 
ring murmur of the streets. Those eternal bells 



depress me. The closed shops repel me. Prints, 
pictures, all the glittering and endless succes- 
sion of knacks and gewgaws, and ostentatiously 
displayed wares of tradesmen, which make a 
week-day saunter through the less busy parts 
of the metropolis so delightful — are shut out. 
No book-stalls deliciously to idle over — No 
busy faces to recreate the idle man who con- 
templates them ever passing by — the very face 
of business a charm by contrast to his tempo- 
rary relaxation from it. Nothing to be seen 
but unhappy countenances — or half-happy at 
best — of emancipated 'prentices and little 
tradesfolks, Avith here and there a servant- 
maid that has got leave to go .out, who, slav- 
ing all the week, with the habit has lost 
almost the capacity of enjoying a free hour ; 
and livelily expressing the hollowness of a 
day's pleasuring. The very strollers in the 
fields on that day look anything but comfort- 
able. 

But besides Sundays I had a day at Easter, 
and a day at Christmas, with a full week in the 
summer to go and air myself in my native 
fields of Hertfordshire. This last was a great 
indulgence ; and the prospect of its recurrence, 
I believe, alone kept me up through the year, 
and made my durance tolerable. But when 
the week came round, did the glittering 
phantom of the distance keep touch with me ? 



THE SUPERANNUATED MAN. 



27 



or rather was it not a series of seven uneasy 
days, spent in restless pursuit of pleasure, and 
a wearisome anxiety to find out how to make 
the most of them ? Where was the quiet, 
where the promised rest ? Before I had a 
taste of it, it was vanished. I was at the desk 
again, counting upon the fifty-one tedious 
weeks that must intervene before such another 
snatch would come. Still the prospect of its 
coming threw something of an illumination 
upon the darker side of my captivity. With- 
out it, as I have said, I could scarcely have 
sustained my thraldom. 

Independently of the rigours of attendance, 
I have ever been haunted with a sense (perhaps 
a mere caprice) of incapacity for business. 
This, during my latter years, had increased to 
such a degree, that it was visible in all the 
lines of my countenance. My health and my 
good spirits flagged. I had perpetually a dread 
of some crisis, to which I should be found 
unequal. Besides my daylight servitude, I 
served over again all night in my sleep, and 
would awake with terrors of imaginary false 
entries, errors in my accounts, and the like. 
I was fifty years of age, and no prospect of 
emancipation presented itself. I had grown to 
my desk, as it were ; and the wood had entered 
into my soul. 

My fellows in the office would sometimes 
rally me upon the trouble legible in my counte- 
nance ; but I did not know that it had raised the 
suspicions of any of my employers, when, on the 
5th of last month, a day ever to be remembered 

by me, L , the junior partner in the firm, 

calling me on one side, directly taxed me with 
my bad looks, and frankly inquired the cause 
of them. So taxed, I honestly made confession 
of my infirmity, and added that I was afraid I 
should eventually be obliged to resign his 
service. He spoke some words of course to 
hearten me, and there the matter rested. A 
whole week I remained labouring under the 
impression that I had acted imprudently in my 
disclosure ; that I had foolishly given a handle 
against myself, and had been anticipating my 
own dismissal. A week passed in this manner, 
the most anxious one, I verily believe, in my 
whole life, when on the evening of the 12th 
of April, just as I was about quitting my desk 
to go home (it might be about eight o'clock) I 
received an awful summons to attend the 



presence of the whole assembled firm in the 
formidable back parlour. I thought now my 
time is surely come, I have done for myself, I 
am going to be told that they have no longer 

occasion for me. L , I could see, smiled 

at the terror I was in, which was a little relief 

to me, — when to my utter astonishment B , 

the eldest partner, began a formal harangue to 
me on the length of my services, my very 
meritorious conduct during the whole of the 
time (the deuce, thought I, how did he find out 
that ? I protest I never had the confidence to 
think as much). He went on to descant on the 
expediency of retiring at a certain time of life 
(how my heart panted !), and asking me a few 
questions as to the amount of my own property, 
of which I have a little, ended with a proposal, 
to which his three partners nodded a grave 
assent, that I should accept from the house, 
which I had served so well, a pension for life 
to the amount of two-thirds of my accustomed 
salary — a magnificent offer ! I do not know 
what I answered between surprise and grati- 
tude, but it was understood that I accepted 
their proposal, and I was told that I was free 
from that hour to leave their service. I stam- 
mered out a bow, and at just ten minutes after 
eight I went home — for ever. This noble 
benefit — gratitude forbids me to conceal their 
names — I owe to the kindness of the most 
munificent firm in the world — the house of 
Boldero, Merry weather, Bosanquet, and Lacy. 
Esto perpetua ! 
Eor the first day or two I felt stunned, over- 
whelmed. I could only apprehend my felicity ; 
I was too confused to taste it sincerely. I 
wandered about, thinking I was happy, and 
knowing that I was not. I was in the con- 
dition of a prisoner in the old Bastile, suddenly 
let loose after a forty years' confinement. I 
could scarce trust myself with myself. It was 
like passing out of Time into Eternity — for it 
is a sort of Eternity for a man to have his 
Time all to himself. It seemed to me that I 
had more time on my hands than I could ever 
manage. From a poor man, poor in Time, I 
was suddenly lifted up into a vast revenue ; I 
could see no end of my possessions ; I wanted 
some steward, or judicious bailiff, to manage 
my estates in Time for me. And here let me 
caution persons grown old in active business, 
not lightly, nor without wei-ghing their own 



28 



ELIA. 



resources, to forego their customary employ- 
ment all at once, for there may be danger in 
it. I feel it by myself, but I know that my 
resources are sufficient ; and now that those 
first giddy raptures have subsided, I have a 
quiet home-feeling of the blessedness of my 
condition. I am in no hurry. Having all 
holidays, I am as though I had none. If 
Time hung heavy upon me, I could walk it 
away ; but I do not walk all day long, as I 
used to do in those old transient holidays, 
thirty miles a day, to make the most of them. 
If Time were troublesome, I could read it 
away ; but I do not read in that violent 
measure, with which, having no Time my 
own but candlelight Time, I used to weary 
out my head and eyesight in by-gone winters. 
I walk, read, or scribble (as now), just when 
the fit seizes me. I no longer hunt after 
pleasure ; I let it come to me. I am like 
the man 

_— that's born, and has his years come to him, 

In some green desert. 

"Years!" you will say ; "what is this 
superannuated simpleton calculating upon ? 
He has already told us he is past fifty." 

I have indeed lived nominally fifty years, 
but deduct out of them the hours which I 
have lived to other people, and not to myself, 
and you will find me still a young fellow. 
For that is the only true Time, which a man 
can properly call his own, that which he has 
all to himself ; the rest, though in some sense 
he may be said to live it, is other people's 
Time, not his. The remnant of my poor days, 
long or short, is at least multiplied for me 
threefold. My ten next years, if I stretch so 
far, will be as long as any preceding thirty. 
'Tis a fair rule-of- three sum. 

Among the strange fantasies which beset 
me at the commencement of my freedom, 
and of which all traces are not yet gone, one 
was, that a vast tract of time had intervened 
since I quitted the Counting House. I could 
not conceive of it as an affair of yesterday. 
The partners, and the clerks with whom I had 
for so many years, and for so many hours in 
each day of the year, been closely associated 
— being suddenly removed from them— they 
seemed as dead to me. There is a fine passage, 
which may serve to illustrate this fancy, in a 



Tragedy by Sir Robert Howard, speaking of a 
friend's death : — 

■ 'Twas but just now he went away ; 



I have not since had time to shed a tear ; 
And yet the distance does the same appear 
As if he had been a thousand years from me. 
Time takes no measure in Eternity. 

To dissipate this awkward feeling, I have 
been fain to go among them once or twice 
since ; to visit my old desk-fellows — my co- 
brethren of the quill — that I had left below in 
the state militant. Not all the kindness with 
which they received me could quite restore to 
me that pleasant familiarity, which I had 
heretofore enjoyed among them. We cracked 
some of our old jokes, but methought they 
went off but faintly. My old desk ; the peg 
where I hung my hat, were appropriated to 
another. I knew it must be, but I could not 

take it kindly. D 1 take me, if I did not 

feel some remorse — beast, if I had not — at 
quitting my old compeers, the faithful partners 
of my toils for six-and-thirty years, that 
smoothed for me with their jokes and conun- 
drums the ruggedness of my professional road. 
Had it been so rugged then, after all ? or was 
I a coward simply ? Well, it is too late to 
repent ; and I also know that these suggestions 
are a common fallacy of the mind on such 
occasions. But my heart smote me. I had 
violently broken the bands betwixt us. It was 
at least not courteous. I shall be some time 
before I get quite reconciled to the separation. 
Farewell, old cronies, yet not for long, for again 
and again I will come among ye, if I shall have 

your leave. Farewell, Ch , dry, sarcastic, 

and friendly ! Do , mild, slow to move, and 

gentlemanly ! PI , officious to do, and to 

volunteer, good services ! — and thou, thou 
dreary pile, fit mansion for a Gresham or a 
Whittington of old, stately house of Mer- 
chants ; with thy labyrinthine passages, and 
light-excluding, pent-up offices, where candles 
for one-half the year supplied the place of the 
sun's light ; unhealthy contributor to my weal, 
stern fosterer of my living, farewell ! In thee 
remain, and not in the obscure collection of 
some wandering bookseller, my "works !" 
There let them rest, as I do from my labours, 
piled on thy massy shelves, more MSS. in folio 
than ever Aquinas left, and full as useful ! 
My mantle I bequeath among ye. 



THE SUPERANNUATED MAN. 



29 



A fortnight has passed since the date of my 
first communication. At that period I was 
approaching to tranquillity, but had not 
reached it. I boasted of a calm indeed, but 
it was comparative only. Something of the 
first flutter was left ; an unsettling sense of 
novelty ; the dazzle to weak eyes of unac- 
customed light. I missed my old chains, for- 
sooth, as if they had been some necessary part 
of my apparel. I was a poor Carthusian, from 
strict cellular discipline suddenly by some 
revolution returned upon the world. I am 
now as if I had never been other than my own 
master. It is natural to me to go where I 
please, to do what I please. I find myself at 
eleven o'clock in the day in Bond-street, and 
it seems to me that I have been sauntering 
there at that very hour for years past. I 
digress into Soho, to explore a book-stall. 
Methinks I have been thirty years a collector. 
There is nothing strange nor new in it. I find 
myself before a fine picture in the morning. 
Was it ever otherwise? What is become of 
Fish-street Hill ? Where is Fenchurch-street ? 
Stones of old Mincing-lane, which I have worn 
I with my daily pilgrimage for six-and-thirty 
; years, to the footsteps of what toil-worn clerk 
I are your everlasting flints now vocal ? I indent 
the gayer flags of Pall Mail. It is 'Change 
time, and I am strangely among the Elgin 
marbles. It was no hyperbole when I ventured 
to compare the change in my condition to a 
passing into another world. Time stands still 
in a manner to me. I have lost all distinction 
of season. I do not know the day of the week 
or of the month. Each day used to be indi- 
| vidually felt by me in its reference to the 
j foreign post days ; in its distance from, or 
i propinquity to, the next Sunday. I had my 
Wednesday feelings, my Saturday nights' sen- 
sations. The genius of each day was iapon me 
distinctly during the whole of it, affecting my 
appetite, spirits, &c. The phantom of the 
next day, with the dreary five to follow, sate 
as a load upon my poor Sabbath recreations. 



What charm has washed that Ethiop white ? 
What is gone of Black Monday ? All days 
are the same. Sunday itself — that unfortunate 
failure of a holiday, as it too often proved, what 
with my sense of its fugitiveness, and over-care 
to get the greatest quantity of pleasure out 
of it — is melted down into a week day. I 
can spare to go to church now, without grudg- 
ing the huge cantle which it used to seem to 
cut out of the holiday. I have Time for every- 
thing. I can visit a sick friend. I can inter- 
rupt the man of much occupation when he is 
busiest. I can insult over him with an invita- 
tion to take a day's pleasure with me to Wind- 
sor this fine May-morning. It is Lucretian 
pleasure to behold the poor drudges, whom I 
have left behind in the world ; carking and 
caring ; like horses in a mill, drudging on in the 
same eternal round — and what is it all for ? A 
man can never have too much Time to himself, 
nor too little to do. Had I a little son, I would 
christen him Nothing-to-do ; he should do 
nothing. Man, I verily believe, is out of his 
element as long as he is operative. I am alto- 
gether for the life contemplative. Will no 
kindly earthquake come and swallow up those 
accursed cotton mills ? Take me that lumber 
of a desk there, and bowl it down 

As low as to the fiends. 

I am no longer *****.* clerk to the Firm 
of, &c. I am Retired Leisure. I am to be 
met with in trim gardens. I am already come 
to be known by my vacant face and careless 
gesture, perambulating at no fixed pace, nor 
with any settled purpose. I walk about ; not 
to and from. They tell me, a certain cum dig- 
nitate air, that has been buried so long with my 
other good parts, has begun to shoot forth in 
my person. I grow into gentility perceptibly. 
When I take up a newspaper, it is to read the 
state of the opera. Opus operatum est. I have 
done all that I came into this world to do. I 
have worked task-work, and have the rest of 
the day to myself. 



30 



ELIA. 



THE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING. 



It is an ordinary criticism, that my Lord 
Shaftesbury, and Sir William Temple, are 
models of the genteel style in writing. We 
should prefer saying — of the lordly, and the 
gentlemanly. Nothing can be more unlike, 
than the inflated finical rhapsodies of Shaftes- 
bury and the plain natural chit-chat of Temple. 
The man of rank is discernible in both writers ; 
but in the one it is only insinuated gracefully, 
in the other it stands out offensively. The peer 
seems to have written Avith his coronet on, and 
his Earl's mantle before him ; the commoner 
in his elbow-chair and undress. — What can be 
more pleasant than the way in which the re- 
tired statesman peeps out in his essays, penned 
by the latter in his delightful retreat at Shene ? 
They scent of Nimeguen, and the Hague. 
Scarce an authority is quoted under an am- 
bassador. Don Francisco de Melo, a " Portugal 
Envoy in England," tells him it was frequent 
in his country for men, spent with age and 
other decays, so as they could not hope for 
above a year or two of life, to ship themselves 
away in a Brazil fleet, and after their arrival 
there to go on a great length, sometimes of 
twenty or thirty years, or more, by the force 
of that vigour they recovered with that remove. 
" Whether such an effect (Temple beautifully 
adds) might grow from the air, or the fruits of 
that climate, or by approaching nearer the sun, 
which is the fountain of light and heat, when 
their natural heat was so far decayed : or 
whether the piecing out of an old man's life 
were worth the pains ; I cannot tell : perhaps 
the play is not worth the candle " Monsieur 
Pompone, "French Ambassador in his (Sir 
William's) time at the Hague," certifies him, 
that in his life he had never heard of any man 
in France that arrived at a hundred years of 
age; a limitation of life which the old gentleman 
imputes to the excellence of their climate, 
giving them such a liveliness of temper and 
humour, as disposes them to more pleasures of 



all kinds than in other countries; and moralises 
upon the matter very sensibly. The "late 
Robert Earl of Leicester" furnishes him with 
a story of a Countess of Desmond, married out 
of England in Edward the Fourth's time, and 
who lived far in King James's reign. The 
"same noble person" gives him an account, 
how such a year, in the same reign, there went 
about the country a set of morrice-dancers, 
composed of ten men who danced, a Maid 
Marian, and a tabor and pipe ; and how these 
twelve, one with another, made up twelve 
hundred years. " It was not so much (says 
Temple) that so many in one small county 
(Hertfordshire) should live to that age, as that 
theyshouldbe in vigour and in humour to travel 
and to dance." Monsieur Zulichem, one of his 
" colleagues at the Hague," informs him of a 
cure for the gout ; which is confirmed by 
another " Envoy," Monsieur Serinchamps, in 
that town, who had tried it. — Old Prince Mau- 
rice of Nassau recommends to him the use of 
hammocks in that complaint ; having been 
allured to sleep, while suffering imder it him- 
self, by the " constant motion or swinging of 
those airy beds." Count Egmont, and the 
Rhinegrave who "was killed last summer 
before Maestricht," impart to him their expe- 
riences. 

But the rank of the writer is never more 
innocently disclosed, than where he takes for 
granted the compliments paid by foreigners to 
his fruit-trees. For the taste and perfection of 
what we esteem the best, he can truly say, that 
the French, who have eaten his peaches and 
grapes at Shene in no very ill year, have gene- 
rally concluded that the last are as good as any 
they have eaten in Fiance on this side Fon- 
tainebleau ; and the first as good as any they 
have eat in Gascony. Italians have agreed his 
white figs to be as good as any of that sort in 
Italy, which is the earlier kind of white fig 
there ; for in the later kind and the blue, we 



THE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING. 



cannot come near the warm climates, no more 
than in the Frontignac or Muscat grape. His 
orange-trees, too, are as large as any he saw 
when he was young in France, except those of 
Fontainebleau ; or what he has seen since in the 
Low Countries, except some very old ones of 
the Prince of Orange's. Of grapes he had the 
honour of bringing over four sorts into England, 
which he enumerates, and supposes that they 
are all by this time pretty common among some 
gardeners in his neighbourhood, as well as 
several persons of quality ; for he ever thought 
all things of this kind " the Commoner they are 
made the better." The garden pedantry with 
which he asserts that 'tis to little purpose to 
plant any of the best fruits, as peaches or 
grapes, hardly, he doubts, beyond Northampton- 
shire at the furthest northwards ; and praises 
the " Bishop of Munster at Cosevelt," for at- 
tempting nothing beyond cherries in that cold 
climate ; is equally pleasant and in character. 
" I may perhaps" (he thus ends his sweet 
Garden Essay with a passage worthy of Cowley) 
" be allowed to know something of this trade, 
since I have so long allowed myself to be good 
for nothing else, which few men will do, or 
enjoy their gardens, without often looking 
abroad to see how other matters play, what 
motions in the state, and what invitations they 
may hope for into other scenes. For my own 
part, as the country life, and this part of it 
more particularly, were the inclination of my 
youth itself, so they are the pleasure of my age ; 
and I can truly say that, among many great 
employments that have fallen to my share, I 
have never asked or sought for any of them, 
but have often endeavoured to escape from 
them, into the ease and freedom of a private 
scene, where a man may go his own way and 
his own pace, in the common paths and circles 
of life. The measure of choosing well is whether 
a man likes what he has chosen, which, I thank 
God, has befallen me ; and though among the 
follies of my life, building and planting have 
not been the least, and have cost me more than 
I have the confidence to own ; yet they have 
been fully recompensed by the sweetness and 
satisfaction of this retreat, where, since my 
resolution taken of never entering again into 
any public employments, I have passed five 
years without ever once going to town, though 
I am almost in sight of it, and have a house 



there always ready to receive me. Nor has 
this been any sort of affectation, as some have 
thought it, but a mere want of desire or humour 
to make so small a remove ; for when I am in 
this corner, I can truly say with Horace, Me 
quoties reficit, fyc. 

" Me, when the cold Digentian stream revives, 
What does my friend believe I think or ask ? 
Let me yet less possess, so I may live, 
"Whate'er of life remains, unto myself. 
May I have books enough ; and one year's store, 
Not to depend upon each doubtful hour : 
This is enough of mighty Jove to pray, 
Who, as he pleases, gives and takes away." 

The writings of Temple are, in general, after 
this easy copy. On one occasion, indeed, his 
wit, which was mostly subordinate to nature 
and tenderness, has seduced him into a string 
of felicitous antitheses ; which, it is obvious to 
remark, have been a model to Addison and 
succeeding essayists. " Who would not be 
covetous, and with reason," he says, " if health 
could be purchased with gold ? who not am- 
bitious, if it were at the command of power, or 
restored by honour ? but, alas ! a white staff 
will not help gouty feet to walk better than a 
common cane ; nor a blue riband bind up a 
wound so well as a fillet. The glitter of gold, 
or of diamonds, will but hurt sore eyes instead 
of curing them ; and an aching head will be no 
more eased by wearing a crown than a common 
night-cap." In a far better style, and more 
accordant with his own humour of plainness, 
are the concluding sentences of his "Discourse 
upon Poetry." Temple took a part in the 
controversy about the ancient and the modern 
learning ; and, with that partiality so natural 
and so graceful in an old msdi, whose state 
engagements had left him little leisure to look 
into modern productions, while his retirement 
gave him occasion to look back upon the classic 
studies of his youth — decided in favour of the 
latter. " Certain it is," he says, " that, whether 
the fierceness of the Gothic humours, or noise 
of their perpetual wars, frighted it away, or 
that the unequal mixture of the modern lan- 
guages would not bear it — the great heights 
and excellency both of poetry and music fell 
with the Roman learning and empire, and have 
never since recovered the admiration and 
applauses that before attended them. Yet, 
such as they are amongst us, they must be 



A2 



ELIA. 



confessed to be the softest and the sweetest, 
the most general and most innocent amuse- 
ments of common time and life. They still 
find room in the courts of princes, and the 
cottages of shepherds. They serve to revive 
and animate the dead calm of poor and idle 
lives, and to allay or divert the violent passions 
and perturbations of the greatest and the busiest 
men. And both these effects are of equal use 
to human life ; for the mind of man is like the 
sea, which is neither agreeable to the beholder 
nor the voyager, in a calm or in a storm, but 
is so to both when a little agitated by gentle 
gales ; and so the mind, when moved by soft 
and easy passions or affections. I know very 
well that many who pretend to be wise by the 
forms of being grave, are apt to despise both 
poetry and music, as toys and trifles too light 
for the use or entertainment of serious men. 



But whoever find themselves wholly insensible 
to their charms, would, I think, do well to 
keep their own counsel, for fear of reproaching 
their own temper, and bringing the goodness 
of their natures, if not of their understandings, 
into question. While this world lasts, I doubt 
not but the pleasure and request of these two 
entertainments will do so too ; and happy those 
that content themselves with these, or any 
other so easy and so innocent, and do not 
trouble the world or other men, because they 
cannot be quiet themselves, though nobody 
hurts them." " When all is done (he con- 
cludes), human life is at the greatest and the 
best but like a froward child, that must be 
played with, and humoured a little, to keep it 
quiet, till it falls asleep, and then the care is 
over." 



BARBARA S- 



On the noon of the 14th of November, 1743 
or 4, 1 forget which it was, just as the clock 

had struck one, Barbara S , with her 

accustomed punctuality, ascended the long 
rambling staircase, with awkward interposed 
landing-places, which led to the office, or rather 
a sort of box with a desk in it, whereat sat the 
then Treasurer of (what few of our readers 
may remember) the Old Bath Theatre. All 
over the island it was the custom, and remains 
so I believe to this day, for the players to re- 
ceive their weekly stipend on the Saturday. 
It was not much that Barbara had to claim. 

This little maid had just entered her eleventh 
year ; but her important station at the theatre, 
as it seemed to her, with the benefits which 
she felt to accrue from her pious application of 
her small earnings, had given an air of woman- 
hood to her steps and to her behaviour. You 
would have taken her to have been at least 
five years older. 

Till latterly she had merely been employed 
in choruses, or where children were wanted to 
fill up the scene. But the manager, observing 
a diligence and adroitness in her above her age, 
had for some few months past intrusted to her 
the performance of whole parts. You may 



guess the self-consequence of the promoted 
Barbara. She had already drawn tears in 
young Arthur ; had rallied Richard with in- 
fantine petulance in the Duke of York ; and 
in her turn had rebuked that petulance when 
she was Prince of Wales. She would have 
done the elder child in Morton's pathetic after- 
piece to the life ; but as yet the " Children in 
the Wood" was not. 

Long after this little girl was grown an aged 
woman, I have seen some of these small parts, 
each making two or three pages at most, 
copied out in the rudest hand of the then 
prompter, who doubtless transcribed a little 
more carefully and fairly for the * grown-up 
tragedy ladies of the establishment. But such 
as they were, blotted and scrawled, as for a 
child's use, she kept them all ; and in the 
zenith of her after reputation it was a delight- 
ful sight to behold them bound up in costliest 
morocco, each single — each small part making 
a book — with fine clasps, gilt-splashed, &c. She 
had conscientiously kept them as they had been 
delivered to her ; not a blot had been effaced 
or tampered with. They were precious to her 
for their affecting remembrancings. They were 
her principia, her rudiments ; the elementary 



BARBARA S- 



33 



atoms ; the little steps by which she pressed 
forward to perfection. "What," she would 
say, " could Indian-rubber, or a pumice-stone, 
have done for these darlings ?" 

I am in no hurry to begin my story — indeed 
I have little or none to tell — so I will just 
mention an observation of hers connected with 
that interesting time. 

Not long before she died I had been dis- 
coursing with her on the quantity of real 
present emotion which a great tragic performer 
experiences during acting. I ventured to 
think, that though in the first instance such 
players must have possessed the feelings which 
they so powerfully called up in others, yet by 
frequent repetition those feelings must become 
deadened in great measure, and the performer 
trust to the memory of past emotion, rather 
than express a present one. She indignantly 
repelled the notion, that with a truly great 
tragedian the operation, by which such effects 
were produced upon an audience, could ever 
degrade itself into what was purely mechanical. 
"With much delicacy, avoiding to instance in 
her self- experience, she told me, that so long 
ago as when she used to play the part of the 
Little Son to Mrs. Porter's Isabella, (I think 
it was,) when that impressive actress has been 
bending over her in some heart-rending col- 
loquy, she has felt real hot tears come trickling 
from her, which (to use her powerful expres- 
sion) have perfectly scalded her back. 

I am not quite so sure that it was Mrs. 
Porter ; but it was some great actress of that 
day. The name is indifferent ; but the fact of 
the scalding tears I most distinctly remember. 

I was always fond of the society of players, 
and am not sure that an impediment in my 
speech (which certainly kept me out of the 
pulpit) even more than certain personal dis- 
qualifications, which are often got over in that 
profession, did not prevent me at one time of 
life from adopting it. I have had the honour 
(I must ever call it) once to have been admitted 
to the tea-table of Miss Kelly. I have played 
at serious whist with Mr. Liston. I have 
chatted with ever good-humoured Mrs. Charles 
Kemble. I have conversed as friend to friend 
with her accomplished husband. I have been 
indulged with a classical conference with 
Macready; and with a sight of the Player- 
picture gallery, at Mr. Mathews's, when the 
[second series.] 



kind owner, to remunerate me for my love of 
the old actors (whom he loves so much), went 
over it with me, supplying to his capital col- 
lection, what alone the artist could not give 
them — voice ; and their living motion. Old 
tones, half-faded, of Dodd, and Parsons, and 
Baddeley, have lived again for me at his bid- 
ding Only Edwin he could not restore to me. 

I have supped with ; but I am growing a 

coxcomb. 

As I was about to say — at the desk of the 
then treasurer of the old Bath theatre— not 
Diamond's— presented herself the little Barbara 
S . 

The parents of Barbara had been in reputable 
circumstances. The father had practised, I 
believe, as an apothecary in the town. But 
his practice, from causes which I feel my own 
infirmity too sensibly that way to arraign — or 
perhaps from that pure infelicity which accom- 
panies some people in their walk through life, 
and which it is impossible to lay at the door of 
imprudence — was now reduced to nothing. 
They were in fact in the very teeth of star- 
vation, when the manager, who knew and 
respected them in better days, took the little 
Barbara into his company. 

At the period I commenced with, her slender 
earnings were the sole support of the family, 
including two younger sisters. I must throw 
a veil over some mortifying circumstances. 
Enough to say, that her Saturday's pittance 
was the only chance of a Sunday's (generally 
their only) meal of meat. 

One thing I will only mention, that in some 
child's part, where in her theatrical character 
she was to sup off a roast fowl (0 joy to 
Barbara !) some comic actor, who was for the 
night caterer for this dainty — in the misguided 
humour of his part, threw over the dish such 
a quantity of salt (0 grief and pain of heart 
to Barbara !) that when she crammed a portion 
of it into her mouth, she was obliged sputter- 
ingly to reject it ; and what with shame of her 
ill-acted part, and pain of real appetite at 
missing such a dainty, her little heart sobbed 
almost to breaking, till a flood of tears, which 
the well-fed spectators were totally unable 
to comprehend, mercifully relieved her. 

This was the little starved, meritorious maid, 
who stood before old Ravenscroft, the treasurer, 
for her Saturday's payment. 



34 



ELIA. 



Ravenscroft was a man, I have heard many 
old theatrical people besides herself say, of all 
men least calculated for a treasurer. He had 
no head for accounts, paid away at random, 
kept scarce any books, and summing up at the 
week's end, if he found himself a pound or so 
deficient, blest himself that it was no worse. 

Now Barbara's weekly stipend was a bare 
half guinea. — By mistake he popped into her 
hand — a whole one. 

Barbara tripped away. 

She was entirely unconscious at first of the 
mistake : God knows, Ravenscroft would never 
have discovered it. 

But when she had got down to the first 
of those uncouth landing-places, she became 
sensible of an unusual weight of metal pressing 
her little hand. 

Now mark the dilemma. 

She was by nature a good child. From her 
parents and those about her she had imbibed 
no contrary influence. But then they had 
taught her nothing. Poor men's smoky cabins 
are not always porticoes of moral philosophy. 
This little maid had no instinct to evil, but then 
she might be said to have no fixed principle. 
She had heard honesty commended, but never 
dreamed of its application to herself. She 
thought of it as something which concerned 
grown-up people, men and women. She had 
never known temptation, or thought of pre- 
paring resistance against it. 

Her first impulse was to go back to the old 
treasurer, and explain to him his blunder. He 
was already so confused with age, besides a 
natural want of punctuality, that she would 
have had some difficulty in making him under- 
stand it. She saw that in an instant. And 
then it was such a bit of money ! and then the 
image of a larger allowance of butcher's-meat 
on their table next day came across her, till 
her little eyes glistened, and her mouth mois- 
tened. But then Mr. Ravenscroft had always 
been so good-natured, had stood her friend 
behind the scenes, and even recommended her 
promotion to some of her little parts. But 
again the old man was reputed to be worth a 
world of money. He was supposed to have 
fifty pounds a year clear of the theatre. And 
then came staring upon her the figures of her 
little stockingless and shoeless sisters. And 
when she looked at her own neat white cotton 



stockings, which her situation at the theatre 
had made it indispensable for her mother to 
provide for her, with hard straining and pinch- 
ing from the family stock, and thought how 
glad she should be to cover their poor feet with 
the same — and how then they could accompany 
her to rehearsals, which they had hitherto been 
precluded from doing, by reason of their un- 
fashionable attire, — in these thoughts she 
reached the second landing-place — the second, I 
mean, from the top — for there was still another 
left to traverse. 

Now virtue support Barbara ! 

And that never-failing friend did step in — 
for at that moment a strength not her own, I 
have heard her say, was revealed to her— a 
reason above reasoning — and without her own 
agency, as it seemed (for she never felt her 
feet to move) she found herself transported 
back to the individual desk she had just quit- 
ted, and her hand in the old hand of Ravens- 
croft, who in silence took back the refunded 
treasure, and who had been sitting (good man) 
insensible to the lapse of minutes, which to her 
were anxious ages, and from that moment a 
deep peace fell upon her heart, and she knew 
the quality of honesty. 

A year or two's unrepining application to her 
profession brightened up the feet, and the pro- 
spects, of her little sisters, set the whole family 
upon their legs again, and released her from 
the difficulty of discussing moral dogmas upon 
a landing-place. 

I have heard her say, that it was a surprise, 
not much short of mortification to her, to see 
the coolness with which the old man pocketed 
the difference, which had caused her such mortal 
throes. 

This anecdote of herself I had in the year 
1800, from the mouth of the late Mrs. Craw- 
ford,* then sixty-seven years of age (she died 
soon after) ; and to her struggles upon this 
childish occasion I have sometimes ventured to 
think her indebted for that power of rendingr 
the heart in the representation of conflicting 
emotions, for which in after years she was con- 
sidered as little inferior (if at all so in the part 
of Lady Randolph) even to Mrs. Siddons. 

* The maiden name of this lady was Street, which she 
changed hy successive marriages, for those of Dancer, 
Barry, and Crawford. She was Mrs. Crawford, a third 
time a widow, when I knew her. 



THE TOMBS IN THE ABBEY. 



35 



THE TOMBS IN THE ABBEY. 

IN A LETTER TO R S , ESQ. 



Though in some points of doctrine, and per- 
haps of discipline, I am diffident of lending a 
perfect assent to that church which you have 
so worthily historified, yet may the ill time never 
come to me, when with a chilled heart or a 
portion of irreverent sentiment, I shall enter 
her beautiful and time -hallowed Edifices. 
Judge then of my mortification when, after at- 
tending the choral anthems of last Wednesday 
at Westminster, and being desirous of renewing 
my acquaintance, after lapsed years, with the 
tombs and antiquities there, I found myself 
excluded ; turned out like a dog, or some pro- 
fane person, into the common street, with 
feelings not very congenial to the place, or to 
the solemn service which I had been listening 
to. It was a jar after that music. 

You had your education at Westminster ; 
and doubtless among those dim aisles and 
cloisters, you must have gathered much of that 
devotional feeling in those young years, on 
which your purest mind feeds still — and may 
it feed ! The antiquarian spirit, strong in you, 
and gracefully blending ever with the religious, 
may have been sown in you among those wrecks 
of splendid mortality. You owe it to the place of 
your education ; you owe it to your learned fond- 
ness for the architecture of your ancestors ; 
you owe it to the venerableness of your eccle- 
siastical establishment, which is daily lessened 
and called in question through these practices 
— to speak aloud your sense of them ; never to 
desist raising your voice against them, till they 
be totally done away with and abolished ; till 
the doors of Westminster Abbey be no longer 
closed against the decent, though low-in-purse, 
enthusiast, or blameless devotee, who must 
commit an injury against his family economy, 
if he would be indulged with a bare admission 
within its walls. You owe it to the decencies, 
which you wish to see maintained, in its im- 
pressive services, that our Cathedral be no 



longer an object of inspection to the poor at 
those times only, in which they must rob from 
their attendance on the worship every minute 
which they can bestow upon the fabric. In 
vain the public prints have taken up this sub- 
ject, in vain such poor nameless writers as my- 
self express their indignation. A word from 
you, Sir — a hint in your Journal — would be 
sufficient to fling open the doors of the Beauti- 
ful Temple again, as we can remember them 
when we were boys. At that time of life, what 
would the imaginative faculty (such as it is) 
in both of us, have suffered, if the entrance to 
so much reflection had been obstructed by the 
demand of so much silver ! — If we had scraped 
it up to gain an occasional admission (as we 
certainly should have done) would the sight of 
those old tombs have been as impressive to us 
(while we have been weighing anxiously pru- 
dence against sentiment) as when the gates 
stood open as those of the adjacent Park ; when 
we could walk in at any time, as the mood 
brought us, for a shorter, or longer time, as 
that lasted ? Is the being shown over a place 
the same as silently for ourselves detecting the 
genius of it ? In no part of our beloved Abbey 
now can a person find entrance (out of service 
time) under the sum of tieo shillings. The 
rich and the great will smile at the anticlimax, 
presumed to lie in these two short words. But 
you can tell them, Sir, how much quiet worth, 
how much capacity for enlarged feeling, how 
much taste and genius, may coexist, especially 
in youth, with a purse incompetent to this de- 
mand. — A respected friend of ours, during his 
late visit to the metropolis, presented himself 
for admission to St. Paul's. At the same time 
a decently clothed man, with as decent a wife, 
and child, were bargaining for the same indul- 
gence. The price was only two-pence each 
person. The poor but decent man hesitated, 
desirous to go in ; but there were three of them, 



3G 



ELIA. 



and he turned away reluctantly. Perhaps 
he wished to have seen the tomb of Nelson. 
Perhaps the Interior of the Cathedral was his 
object. But in the state of his finances, even 
sixpence might reasonably seem too much. 
Tell the Aristocracy of the country (no man 
can do it more impressively) ; instruct them of 
what value these insignificant pieces of money, 
these minims to their sight, may be to their 
humbler brethren. Shame these Sellers out 
of the Temple. Stifle not the suggestions of 
your better nature with the pretext, that an 
indiscriminate admission would expose the 
Tombs to violation. Remember your boy- days. 
Did you ever see, or hear, of a mob in the 
Abbey, while it was free to all ? Do the rabble 
come there, or trouble their heads about such 
speculations ? It is all that you can do to drive 
them into your churches ; they do not volun- 
tarily offer themselves. They have, alas ! no 
passion for antiquities ; for tomb of king or 



prelate, sage or poet. If they had, they would 
be no longer the rabble. 

For forty years that I have known the Fabric, 
the only well-attested charge of violation ad- 
duced, has been — a ridiculous dismemberment 
committed upon the effigy of that amiable spy, 
Major Andre. And is it for this — the wanton 
mischief of some school-boy, fired perhaps 
with raw notions of Transatlantic Freedom — 
or the remote possibility of such a mischief oc- 
curring again, so easily to be prevented by 
stationing a constable within the walls, if the 
vergers are incompetent to the duty — is it 
upon such wretched pretences, that the people 
of England are made to pay a new Peter's Pence 
so long abrogated ; or must content themselves 
with contemplating the ragged Exterior of their 
Cathedral? The mischief was done about the time 
that you were a scholar there. Do you know 
any thing about the unfortunate relic ? — 



AMICUS REDIVIVUS. 



Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 



I do not know when I have experienced a 
stranger sensation, than on seeing my old friend 
G. D., who had been paying me a morning visit 
a few Sundays back, at my cottage at Isling- 
ton, upon taking leave, instead of turning down 
the right-hand path by which he had entered — 
with staff in hand, and at noon day deliberately 
march right forwards into the midst of the 
stream that runs by us, and totally disappear. 

A spectacle like this at dusk would have 
been appalling enough ; but in the broad open 
daylight, to witness such an unreserved motion 
towards self-destruction in a valued friend, 
took from me all power of speculation. 

How I found my feet, I know not. Conscious- 
ness was quite gone. Some spirit, not my 
own, whirled me to the spot. I remember 
nothing but the silvery apparition of a good 
white head emerging ; nigh which a staff (the 



hand unseen that wielded it) pointed upwards, 
as feeling for the skies. In a moment (if time 
was in that time) he was on my shoulders, and 
I — freighted with a load more precious than 
his who bore Anchises. 

And here I cannot but do justice to the 
officious zeal of sundry passers by, who, albeit 
arriving a little too late to participate in the 
honours of the rescue, in philanthropic shoals 
came thronging to communicate their advice 
as to the recovery ; prescribing variously the 
application, or non-application, of salt, &c, to 
the person of the patient. Life meantime was 
ebbing fast away, amidst the stifle of conflict- 
ing judgments, when one, more sagacious than 
the rest, by a bright thought, proposed sending 
for the Doctor. Trite as the counsel was, and 
impossible, as one should think, to be missed on, 
— shall I confess ? — in this emergency it was to 



AMICUS REDIVIVUS. 



37 



me as if an Angel had spoken. Great previous 
exertions — and mine had not been inconsider- 
able — are commonly followed by a debility of 
purpose. This was a moment of irresolution. 

Monoculus — for so, in default of catching 
his true name, I choose to designate the medical 
gentleman who now appeared — is a grave, 
middle-aged person,who, without having studied 
at the college, or truckled to the pedantry of 
a diploma, hath employed a great portion of 
his valuable time in experimental processes 
upon the bodies of unfortunate fellow-creatures, 
in whom the vital spark, to mere vulgar think- 
ing, would seem extinct, and lost for ever. He 
omitteth no occasion of obtruding his services, 
from a case of common surfeit suffocation to the 
ignobler obstructions, sometimes induced by a 
too wilful application of the plant cannabis out- 
wardly. But though he declineth not alto- 
gether these drier extinctions, his occupation 
tendeth, for the most part, to water-practice ; 
for the convenience of which, he hath judici- 
ously fixed his quarters near the grand reposi- 
tory of the stream mentioned, where day and 
night, from his little watch-tower, at the 
Middleton's Head, he listeneth to detect the 
wrecks of drowned mortality — partly, as he 
saith, to be upon the spot — and partly, because 
the liquids which he iiseth to prescribe to 
himself, and his patients, on these distressing 
occasions, are ordinarily more conveniently to 
be found at these common hostelries than in 
the shops and phials of the apothecaries. His 
ear hath arrived to such finesse by practice, 
that it is reported he can distinguish a plunge, 
at a half furlong distance ; and can tell if it be 
casual or deliberate. He weareth a medal, sus- 
pended over a suit, originally of a sad brown, 
but which, by time and frequency of nightly 
divings, has been dinged into a true profes- 
sional sable. He passeth by the name of 
Doctor, and is remarkable for wanting his 
left eye. His remedy — after a sufficient ap- 
plication of warm blankets, friction, &c, is a 
simple tumbler or more, of the purest Cognac, 
with water, made as hot as the convalescent 
can bear it. Where he findeth, as in the case of 
my friend, a squeamish subject, he condescend- 
eth to be the taster ; and showeth,by his own ex- 
ample, the innocuous nature of the prescription. 
Nothing can be more kind or encouraging than 
this procedure, It addeth confidence to the 



patient, to see his medical adviser go hand in 
hand with himself in the remedy. When the 
doctor swalloweth his own draught, what 
peevish invalid can refuse to pledge him in the 
potion ? In fine, Mokoculus is a humane, 
sensible man, who,for a slender pittance, scarce 
enough to sustain life, is content to wear it out 
in the endeavour to save the lives of others — 
his pretensions so moderate, that with difficulty 
I could press a crown upon him, for the price 
of restoring the existence of such an invaluable 
creature to society as G. D. 

It was pleasant to observe the effect of the 
subsiding alarm upon the nerves of the dear 
absentee. It seemed to have given a shake to 
memory, calling up notice after notice, of all 
the providential deliverances he had experi- 
enced in the course of his long and innocent 
life. Sitting up in my couch — my couch which, 
naked and void of furniture hitherto, for the 
salutary repose which it administered, shall be 
honoured with costly valance, at some price, 
and henceforth be a state-bed at Colebrook,- — 
he discoursed of marvellous escapes — by care- 
lessness of nurses — by pails of gelid, and kettles 
of the boiling element, in infancy — by orchard 
pranks, and snapping twigs, in schoolboy frolics 
— by descent of tiles at Trumpington, and of 
heavier tomes at Pembroke — by studious 
watchings, inducing frightful vigilance — by 
want, and the fear of want, and all the sore 
throbbings of the learned head. — Anon, he 
would burst out into little fragments of chant- 
ing — of songs long ago — ends of deliverance 
hymns, not remembered before since childhood, 
but coming up now, when his heart was made 
tender as a child's — for the tremor cordis, in the 
retrospect of a recent deliverance, as in a case 
of impending danger, acting upon an innocent 
heart, will produce a self-tenderness, which 
we should do ill to christen cowardice ; and 
Shakspeare, in the latter crisis, has made his 
good Sir Hugh to remember the sitting by 
Babylon, and to mutter of shallow rivers. 

Waters of Sir Hugh Middleton — what a 
spark you were like to have extinguished for 
ever ! Your salubrious streams to this City, 
for now near two centuries, would hardly have 
atoned for what you were in a moment washing 
away. Mockery of a river — liquid artifice — 
wretched conduit! henceforth rank with canals, 
and sluggish aqueducts. Was it for this, that, 



38 



ELIA. 



smit in boyhood with the explorations of that 
Abyssinian traveller, I paced the vales of 
Amwell to explore, your tributary springs, to 
trace your salutary waters sparkling through 
green Hertfordshire, and cultured Enfield 
parks ? — Ye have no swans — no Naiads— no 
river God — or did the benevolent hoary aspect 
of my friend tempt ye to suck him in, that ye 
also might have the tutelary genius of your 
waters ? 

Had he been drowned in Cam, there would 
have been some consonancy in it ; but what 
willows had ye to wave and rustle over his 
moist sepulture ? — or, having no name, besides 
that unmeaning assumption of eternal novity, 
did ye think to get one by the noble prize, 
and henceforth to be termed the Stream 
Dyerian ? 

And could such spacious virtue find a grave 
Beneath the imposthumed bubble of a wave ? 

I protest, George, you shall not venture out 
again — no, not by daylight — without a suffi- 
cient pair of spectacles — in your musing moods 
especially. Your absence of mind we have 
borne, till your presence of body came to be 
called in question by it. You shall not go 
wandering into Euripus with Aristotle, if we 
can help it. Fie, man, to turn dipper at your 
years, after your many tracts in favour of 
sprinkling only ! 

I have nothing but water in my head 
o'nights since this frightful accident. Some- 
times I am with Clarence in his dream. At 
others, I behold Christian beginning to sink, 
and crying out to his good brother Hopeful 
(that is, to me), " I sink in deep waters ; the 
billows go over my head, all the waves go over 
me. Selah." Then I have before me Palinurus, 
just letting go the steerage. I cry out too late 
to save. Next follow — a mournful procession 
— suicidal faces, saved against their wills from 
drowning; dolefully trailing a length of re- 
luctant gratefulness, with ropy weeds pendent 



from locks of watchet hue — constrained Lazari 
— Pluto's half-subjects — stolen fees from the 
grave — bilking Charon of his fare. At their 
head Arion — or is it G. D. ? — in his singing 
garments marcheth singly, with harp in hand, 
and votive garland, which Machaon (or Dr. 
Hawes) snatcheth straight, intending to sus- 
pend it to the stern God of Sea. Then follow 
dismal streams of Lethe, in which the half- 
drenched on earth are constrained to drown 
downright, by wharfs where Ophelia twice acts 
her muddy death. 

And, doubtless, there is some notice in that 
invisible world, when one of us approacheth 
(as my friend did so lately) to their inexorable 
precincts. When a soul knocks once, twice, 
at death's door, the sensation aroused within 
the palace must be considerable ; and the grim 
Feature, by modern science so often dis- 
possessed of his prey, must have learned by 
this time to pity Tantalus. 

A pulse assuredly was felt along the line of 
the Elysian shades, when the near arrival of 
G. D. was announced by no equivocal indica- 
tions. From their seats of Asphodel arose the 
gentler and the graver ghosts — poet, or histo- 
rian — of Grecian or of Roman lore — to crown 
with unfading chaplets the half-finished love- 
labours of their unwearied scholiast. Him 
Markland expected — him Tyrwhitt hoped to 
encounter — him the sweet lyrist of Peter 
House, whom he had barely seen upon earth*, 

with newest airs prepared to greet ; and 

patron of the gentle Christ's boy, — who should 
have been his patron through life — the mild 
Askew, with longing aspirations leaned fore- 
most from his venerable iEsculapian chair, to 
welcome into that happy company the matured 
virtues of the man, whose tender scions in the 
boy he himself upon earth had so prophetically 
fed and watered. 

* Graium tantum vidit. 



SIR PHILIP SYDNEY'S SONNETS. 



39 



SOME SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. 



Sydney's Sonnets — I speak of the best of 
them — are among the very best of their sort. 
They fall below the plain moral dignity, the 
sanctity, and high yet modest spirit of self- 
approval, of Milton, in his compositions of a 
similar structure. They are in truth what 
Milton, censuring the Arcadia, says of that 
work, (to which they are a sort of after-tune 
or application,) " vain and amatorious" enough, 
yet the things in their kind (as he confesses to 
be true of the romance) may be " full of worth 
and wit." They savour of the Courtier, it 
must be allowed, and not of the Common- 
wealthsman. But Milton was a Courtier when 
he wrote the Masque at Ludlow Castle, and 
still more a Courtier when he composed the 
Arcades. When the national struggle was to 
begin, he becomingly cast these vanities behind 
him ; and if the order of time had thrown Sir 
Philip upon the crisis which preceded the 
Revolution, there is no reason why he should 
not have acted the same part in that emer- 
gency, which has glorified the name of a later 
Sydney. He did not want for plainness or 
boldness of spirit. His letter on the French 
match may testify, he could speak his mind 
freely to Princes. The times did not call him 
to the scaffold. 

The Sonnets which we oftenest call to mind 
of Milton were the compositions of his ma- 
turest years. Those of Sydney, which I am 
about to produce, were written in the very 
hey-day of his blood. They are stuck full of 
amorous fancies— far-fetched conceits, befitting 
his occupation : for True Love thinks no 
labour to send out Thoughts upon the vast, 
and more than Indian voyages, to bring home 
rich pearls, outlandish wealth, gums^ jewels, 
spicery, to sacrifice in self-depreciating simili- 
tudes, as shadows of true amiabilities in the 
Beloved. "We must be Lovers — or at least the 
cooling touch of time, the circum prcecordia 
frigus must not have so damped our faculties, 



as to take away our recollection that we were 
once so — before we can duly appreciate the 
glorious vanities, and graceful hyperboles, of 
the passion. The images which lie before our 
feet (though by some accounted the only 
natural) are least natural for the high Sydnean 
love to express its fancies by. They may 
serve for the loves of Tibullus, or the dear 
Author of the Schoolmistress ; for passions 
that creep and whine in Elegies and Pastoral 
Ballads. I am sure Milton never loved at this 
rate. I am afraid some of his addresses (ad 
Leonoram I mean) have rather erred on the 
farther side ; and that the poet came not much 
short of a religious indecorum, when he could 
thus apostrophise a singing-girl ; — 

Angelus unicuique suus (sic credite gentes) 

Obtigit aetheriis ales ab ordinibus. 
Quid mirum, Leonora, tibi si gloria major, 

Nam tua prasentem vox sonat ipsa Deum ? 
Aut Deus, aut vacui certe mens tertia cceli, 

Per tua secreto guttura serpit agens ; 
Serpit agens, facilisque docet mortalia corda 

Sensim immortali assuescere posse sono. 
Quod si cuncta quidem Deus est, per cunctaque fusus, 
In te una loquitur, cetera mutus habet. 

This is loving in a strange fashion : and it 
requires some candour of construction (besides 
the slight darkening of a dead language) to 
cast a veil over the ugly appearance of some- 
thing very like blasphemy in the last two 
verses. I think the Lover would have been 
staggered, if he had gone about to express the 
same thought in English. I am sure, Sydney 
has no flights like this. His extravaganzas do 
not strike at the sky, though he takes leave to 
adopt the pale Dian into a fellowship with his 
mortal passions. 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ; 
How silently, and with how wan a face ! 
What ! may it be-, that even in heavenly place 
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries ? 



40 



ELIA. 



Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes 
Can judge. of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ; 
I read it in thy looks ; thy languisht grace 
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, 
Is constant love deem'd there hut want of wit ? 
Are beauties there as proud as here they he? 
Do they ahove love to he loved, and yet 
Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess ? 
Do they call virtue there — ungratefulness ! 

The last line of this poem is a little obscured 
by transposition. He means, Do they call un- 
gratefulness there a virtue ? 

ii. 

Come, Sleep, Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 
The baiting place of wit, the halm of woe, 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoners release, 
The indifferent judge between the high and low ; 
"With shield of proof shield me from out the prease* 
Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw ; 

make in me those civil wars to cease : 

1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 

Take thou of me sweet pillows, sweetest bed 
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light ; 
A rosy garland, and a weary head. 
And if these things, as being thine by right, 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, 
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 

in. 
The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness 
Bewray itself in my long-settled eyes, 
Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise, 
"With idle pains, and missing aim, do guess. 
Some that know how my spring I did address, 
Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies ; 
Others, because the Prince my service tries, 
Think, that I think state errors to redress ; 
But harder judges judge, ambition's rage, 
Scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place, 
Holds my young brain captived in golden cage. 
O fools, or over-wise ! alas, the race 
Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start, 
But only Stella's eyes, and Stella's heart. 

IV. 

Because I oft in dark abstracted guise 
Seem most alone in greatest company, 
With dearth of words, or answers quite awry, 
To them that would make speech of speech arise ; 
They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies, 
That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie 
So in my swelling breast, that only I 
Fawn on myself, and others do despise ; 

* Press. 



Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess, 
Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass ; 
But one worse fault — Ambition — I confess, 
That makes me oft my best friends overpass, 
Unseen, unheard — while Thought to highest place 
Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace. 



Having this day, my horse, my hand, my lance, 
Guided so well that I obtained the prize, 
Both by the judgment of the English eyes, 
And of some sent from that sweet enemy, — France ; 
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance, 
Townsfolk my strength ; a daintier judge applies 
His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise ; 
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance ; 
Others, because of both sides I do take 
My blood from them, who did excel in this, 
Think Nature me a man of arms did make. 
How far they shot awry ! the true cause is, 
Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face 
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. 



In martial sports I had my cunning tried, 
And yet to break more staves did me address, 
While with the people's shouts (I must confess) 
Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins with 

pride — 
When Cupid having me (his slave) descried 
In Mars' s livery, prancing in the press, 
" What now, Sir Fool !" said he : "I would no less : 
Look here, I say." I look'd, and Stella spied, 
Who hard by made a window send forth light. 
My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes % 
One hand forgot to rule, th' other to fight ; 
Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries. 
My foe came on, and beat the air for me — 
Till that her blush made me my shame to see. 



No more, my dear, no more these counsels try ; 

give my passions leave to run their race ; 
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace ; 
Let folk o'ercharged with brain against me cry; 
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye ; 
Let me no steps, but of lost labour trace ; 

Let all the earth with scorn recount my case — 
But do not will me from my love to fly. 

1 do not envy Aristotle's wit, 

Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame ; 
Nor aught do care though some above me sit, 
Nor hope, nor wish, another course to frame, 
But that which once may win thy cruel heart : 
Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art. 






SIR PHILIP SYDNEY'S SONNETS. 



41 



Love still a boy, and oft a wanton, is, 

School'd only by bis mother's tender eye ; 

What wonder then, if he his lesson miss, 

When for so soft a rod dear play he try ? 

And yet my Star, because a sugar'd kiss 

In sport I suck'd, while she asleep did lie, 

Doth lour, nay chide, nay threat, for only this. 

Sweet, it was saucy Love, not humble I. 

But no 'scuse serves ; she makes her wrath appear 

In beauty's throne — see now who dares come near 

Those scarlet judges, threat'ning bloody pain ? 

heav'nly Fool, thy most kiss-worthy face 
Anger invests with such a lovely grace, 
That anger's self I needs must kiss again. 

IX. 

1 never drank of Aganippe well, 
Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit, 

And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell ; 

Poor lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit. 

Some do I hear of Poet's fury tell, 

But (God wot) wot not what they mean by it ; 

And this I swear by blackest brook of hell, 

I am no pick-purse of another's wit. 

How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease 

My thoughts I speak, and what I speak doth flow 

In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please ? 

Guess me the cause — what is it thus ? — fye, no. 

Or so ? — much less. How then ? sure thus it is, 

My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss. 

x. 

Of all the kings that ever here did reign, 
Edward, named Fourth, as first in praise I name, 
Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain — 
Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame. 
Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame 
His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain ; 
And, gain'd by Mars could yet mad Mars so tame, 
That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain. 
Nor that he made the Floure-de-luce so 'fraid, 
Though strongly hedged of bloody Lions' paws, 
That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid. 
Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause — 
But only, for this worthy knight durst prove 
To lose his crown rather than fall his love. 



happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear, 

1 saw thyself, with many a smiling line 
Upon thy cheerful face, Joy's livery wear, 
While those fair planets on thy streams did shine 
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear, 
While wanton winds, with beauty so divine 
Ravish'd, stay'd not, till in her golden hair 
They did themselves (O sweetest prison) twine. 



And fain those JEol's youth there would their stay 
Have made ; but, forced by nature still to fly, 
First did with puffing kiss those locks display. 
She, so dishevell'd, blush'd ; from window I 
With sight thereof cried out, O fair disgrace, 
Let honour's self to thee grant highest place ! 



Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be ; 
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet, 
Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet, 
More soft than to a chamber melody ; 
Now blessed You bear onward blessed Me 
To Her, where I my heart safe left shall meet, 
My Muse and I must you of duty greet 
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully, 
Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed, 
By no encroachment wrong'd and time forgot ; 
Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed. 
And that you know, I envy you no lot 
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss, 
Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss. 

Of the foregoing, the first, the second, and 
the last sonnet, are my favourites. But the 
general beauty of them all is, that they are so 
perfectly characteristical. The spirit of "learn- 
ing and of chivalry," — of which union, Spenser 
has entitled Sydney to have been the " presi- 
dent," — shines through them. I confess I can 
see nothing of the "jejune" or "frigid" in 
them ; much less of the "stiff" and "cumbrous" 
— which I have sometimes heard objected to 
the Arcadia. The verse runs off swiftly and 
gallantly. It might have been tuned to the 
trumpet ; or tempered (as himself expresses it) 
to " trampling horses' feet." They abound in 
felicitous phrases — 

O heav'nly Fool, thy most kiss-worthy face — 

Sth Sonnet. 

Sweet pillows, sweetest bed ; 

A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light ; 
A rosy garland, and a weary head. 

2nd Sonnet. 

■ That sweet enemy, — France — 

bth Sonnet. 

But they are not rich in words only in vague 
and unlocalised feelings — the failing too much 
of some poetry of the present day — they are 
full, material, and circumstantiated. Time and 
place appropriates every one of them. It is 



42 



ELIA. 



not a fever of passion wasting itself upon a thin 
diet of dainty words, but a transcendent passion 
pervading and illuminating action, pursuits, 
studies, feats of arms, the opinions of contem- 
poraries and his judgment of them. An his- 
torical thread runs through them, which almost 
affixes a date to them ; marks the when and 
where they were written. 

I have dwelt the longer upon what I con- 
ceive the merit of these poems, because I have 
been hurt by the wantonness (I wish I could 
treat it by a gentler name) with which "W. H. 
takes every occasion of insulting the memory 
of Sir Philip Sydney. But the decisions of the 
Author of Table Talk, &c., (most profound and 
subtle where they are, as for the most part, 
just) are more safely to be relied upon, on sub- 
jects and authors he has a partiality for, than 
on such as he has conceived an accidental 
prejudice against. Milton wrote Sonnets, and 
was a king-hater ; and it was congenial perhaps 
to sacrifice a courtier to a patriot. But I was 
unwilling to lose a fine idea from my mind. The 
noble images, passions, sentiments, and poetical 
delicacies of character, scattered all over the 
Arcadia (spite of some stiffness and encumber- 
ment), justify to me the character which his 
contemporaries have left us of the writer. I 
cannot think with the Critic, that Sir Philip 
Sydney was that opprobrious thing which a foolish 
nobleman in his insolent hostility chose to term 
him. I call to mind the epitaph made on him, 
to guide me to juster thoughts of him ; and I 
repose upon the beautiful lines in the " Friend's 
Passion for his Astrophel," printed with the 
Elegies of Spenser and others. 

You knew — who knew not Astrophel ? 
(That I should live to say I knew, 
And have not in possession still !) — 
Things known permit me to renew — 
Of him you know his merit such, 
I cannot say — you hear — too much. 



Within these woods of Arcaay 

He chief delight and pleasure took ; 

And on the mountain Partheny, 

Upon the crystal liquid brook, 
The Muses met him every day, 
That taught him sing, to write, and say. 

When he descended down the mount, 
His personage seemed most divine : 
A thousand graces one might count 
Upon his lovely cheerful eyne. 

To hear him speak, and sweetly smile. 

Yovi were in Paradise the while. 

A sweet attractive kind of grace ; 

A full assurance given by looks ; 

Continual comfort in a face, 

The lineaments of Gospel books — 
I trow that count'nance cannot lye, 
Whose thoughts are legible in the eye. 



Above all others this is he, 
Which erst approved in his song, 
That love and honour might agree, 
And that pure love will do no wrong. 

Sweet saints, it is no sin or blame 

To love a man of virtuous name. 

Did never love so sweetly breathe 

In any mortal breast before : 

Did never Muse inspire beneath 

A Poet's brain with finer store. 

He wrote of Love with high conceit, 
And Beauty rear'd above her height. 

Or let any one read the deeper sorrows (grief 
running into rage) in the Poem,: — the last in 
the collection accompanying the above, — which 
from internal testimony I believe to be Lord 
Brooke's, — beginning with" Silence augmenteth 
grief," — and then seriously ask himself, whether 
the subject of such absorbing and confounding 
regrets could have been that thing which Lord 
Oxford termed him. 



NEWSPAPERS THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO. 



43 



NEWSPAPERS THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO. 



Dan Stuart once told us, that lie did not 
remember that he ever deliberately walked 
into the Exhibition at Somerset House in his 
life. He might occasionally have escorted a 
party of ladies across the way that were going 
in ; but he never went in of his own head. 
Yet the office of the Morning Post newspaper 
stood then just where it does now — we are 
carrying you back, Reader, some thirty years 
or more — with its gilt-globe-topt front facing 
that emporium of our artists' grand Annual 
Exposure. We sometimes wish, that we had 
observed the same abstinence with Daniel. 

A word or two of D. S. He ever appeared 
to us one of the finest-tempered of Editors. 
Perry, of the Morning Chronicle, was equally 
pleasant, with a dash, no slight one either, of 
the courtier. S. was frank, plain, and English 
all over. We have worked for both these 
gentlemen. 

It is soothing to contemplate the head of the 
Ganges ; to trace the first little bubblings of 
a mighty river ; 

"With holy reverence to approach the rocks, 

Whence glide the streams renowned in ancient song. 

Fired with a perusal of the Abyssinian Pil- 
grim's exploratoryramblings after the cradle of 
the infant Nilus, we well remember on one fine 
summer holyday (a " whole day's leave " we 
called it at Christ's hospital) sallying forth at 
rise of sun, not very well provisioned either 
for such an undertaking, to trace the current 
of the New River — Middletonian stream ! — to 
its scaturient source, as we had read, in mea- 
dows by fair Amwell. Gallantly did we com- 
mence our solitary quest — for it was essential 
to the dignity of a Discovery, that no eye of 
schoolboy, save our own, should beam on the 
detection. By flowery spots, and verdant lanes 
skirting Hornsey, Hope trained us on in many 
a baffling turn ; endless, hopeless meanders, as 
it seemed ; or as if the jealous waters had 
dodged us, reluctant to have the humble spot 



of their nativity revealed ; till spent, and nigh 
famished, before set of the same sun, we sate 
down somewhere by Bowes Farm near Tot- 
tenham, with a tithe of our proposed labours 
only yet accomplished ; sorely convinced in 
spirit, that that Brucian enterprise was as yet 
too arduous for our young shoulders. 

Not more refreshing to the thirsty curiosity 
of the traveller is the tracing of some mighty 
waters up to their shallow fontlet, than it is to 
a pleased and candid reader to go back to the 
inexperienced essays, the first callow flights in 
authorship, of some established name in litera- 
ture ; from the Gnat which preluded to the 
iEneid, to the Duck which Samuel Johnson 
trod on. 

In those days every Morning Paper, as an 
essential retainer to its establishment, kept an 
author, who was bound to furnish daily a 
quantum of witty paragraphs. Sixpence a 
joke — and it was thought pretty high too — was 
Dan Stuart's settled remuneration in these 
cases. The chat of the day, scandal, but, above 
all, dress, furnished the material. The length 
of no paragraph was to exceed seven lines. 
Shorter they might be, but they must be poig- 
nant. 

A fashion of flesh, or rather ^nrcfc-coloured 
hose for the ladies, luckily coming up at the 
juncture when we were on our probation for 
the place of Chief Jester to S.'s Paper, estab- 
lished our reputation in that line. We were 
pronounced a " capital hand." O the conceits 
which we varied upon red in all its prismatic 
differences ! from the trite and obvious flower 
of Cytherea, to the flaming costume of the lady 
that has her sitting upon "many waters." Then 
there was the collateral topic of ankles. 
What an occasion to a truly chaste writer, 
like ourself, of touching that nice brink, and 
yet never tumbling over it, of a seemingly ever 
approximating something " not quite proper ;" 
while, like a skilful posture-master, balancing 



44 



ELIA. 



betwixt decorums and their opposites, he keeps 
the line, from which a hair's-breadth deviation 
is destruction ; hovering in the confines of 
light and darkness, or where "both seem either;" 
a hazy uncertain delicacy ; Autolycus-like in 
the Play, still putting off his expectant auditory 
with " Whoop, do me no harm, good man ! " 
But, above all, that conceit arrided us most at 
that time, and still tickles our midriff to re- 
member, where, allusively to the flight of As- 
trsea — ultima Ccelestum terras reliquit — we pro- 
nounced — in reference to the stockings still — 
that Modesty, taking her final leave 

OF MORTALS, HER LAST BLUSH WAS VISIBLE 
IN HER ASCENT TO THE HEAVENS BY THE 
TRACT OF THE GLOWING INSTEP. This might 

be called the crowning conceit ; and was es- 
teemed tolerable writing in those days. 

But the fashion of jokes, with all other 
things, passes away ; as did the transient mode 
which had so favoured us. The ankles of our 
fair friends in a few weeks began to reassume 
their whiteness, and left us scarce a leg to 
stand upon. Other female whims followed? 
but none methought so pregnant, so invitatory 
of shrewd conceits, and more than single 
meanings. 

Somebody has said, that to swallow six cross- 
buns daily, consecutively for a fortnight, would 
surfeit the stoutest digestion. But to have to 
furnish as many jokes daily, and that not for a 
fortnight, but for a long twelvemonth, as we 
were constrained to do, was a little harder ex- 
action. " Man goeth forth to his work until 
the evening" — from a reasonable hour in the 
morning, we presume it was meant. Now, as 
our main occupation took us tip from eight till 
five every day in the City ; and as our evening 
hours, at that time of life, had generally to do 
with anything rather than business, it follows, 
that the only time we could spare for this 
manufactory of jokes — our supplementary live- 
lihood, that supplied us in every want beyond 
mere bread and cheese — was exactly that part 
of the day which (as we have heard of No 
Man's Land) may be fitly denominated No 
Man's Time ; that is, no time in which a man 
ought to be up and awake, in. To speak more 
plainly, it is that time of an hour, or an hour 
and a half's duration, in which a man, whose 
occasions call him up so preposterously, has to 
wait for his breakfast. 



O those head-aches at dawn of day, when at 
five, or half-past five in summer, and not much 
later in the dark seasons, we were compelled to 
rise, having been perhaps not above four hours in 
bed — (for we were no go-to-beds with the lamb, 
though we anticipated the lark ofttimes in her 
rising — we like a parting cup at midnight, as 
all young men did before these effeminate times, 
and to have our friends about us — we were not 
constellated under Aquarius, that watery sign, 
and therefore incapable of Bacchus, cold, 
washy, bloodless — we were none of your Basi- 
lian water-sponges, nor had taken our degrees 
at Mount Ague — we were right toping Capulets, 
jolly companions, we and they) — but to have to 
get up, as we said before, curtailed of half our 
fair sleep, fasting, with only a dim vista of re- 
freshing bohea, in the distance — to be necessi- 
tated to rouse ourselves at the detestable rap 
of an old hag of a domestic, who seemed to 
take a diabolical pleasure in her announcement 
that it was " time to rise ; " and whose chappy 
knuckles we have often yearned to amputate, 
and string them up at our chamber door, to be 
a terror to all such unseasonable rest-breakers 
in future 

" Facil " and sweet, as Virgil sings, had been 
the " descending" of the over-night, balmy the 
first sinking of the heavy head upon the pillow ; 
but to get up, as he goes on to say, 

— revocare gradus, superasque evadere ad auras — 
and to get up moreover to make jokes with 
malice prepended — there was the "labour," 
there the " work." 

No Egyptian taskmaster ever devised a 
slavery like to that, our slavery. No fractious 
operants ever turned out for half the tyranny 
which this necessity exercised upon us. Half 
a dozen jests in a day, (bating Sundays too), 
why, it seems nothing ! We make twice the 
number every day in our lives as a matter of 
course, and claim no Sabbatical exemptions. 
But then they Come into our head. But when 
the head has to go out to them — when the 
mountain must go to Mahomet — 

Reader, try it for once, only for one short 
twelvemonth. 

It was not every week that a fashion of pink 
stockings came up ; but mostly, instead of it, 
some rugged, untractable subject >• some topic 
impossible to be contorted into the risible ; 
some feature, upon which no smile could play; 



NEWSPAPERS THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO. 



45 



some flint, from which no process of ingenuity 
could procure a scintillation. There they lay ; 
there your appointed tale of brick-making was 
set before you, which you must finish, with or 
without straw, as it happened. The craving 
Dragon — the Public — like him in Bel's temple — 
must be fed ; it expected its daily rations ; and 
Daniel, and ourselves, to do us justice, did the 
best we could on this side bursting him. 

While we were wringing out coy sprightli- 
nesses for the Post, and writhing under the 
toil of what is called " easy writing," Bob Allen^ 
our quondam schoolfellow, was tapping his im- 
practicable brains in a like service for the 
" Oracle." Not that Robert troubled himself 
much about wit. If his paragraphs had a 
sprightly air about them, it was sufficient. 
He carried this nonchalance so far at last, that 
a matter of intelligence, and that no very im- 
portant one, was not seldom palmed upon his 
employers for a good jest ; for example sake 
— " Walking yesterday morning casually down Snow 
Hill, who should we meet but Mr. Deputy Humphreys! 
we rejoice to add, that the worthy Deputy appeared 
to enjoy a good state of health. We do not ever re- 
member to have seen him look better." This gentle- 
man so surprisingly met upon Snow Hill, from 
some peculiarities in gait or gesture, was a con- 
stant butt for mirth to the small paragraph- 
mongers of the day ; and our friend thought 
that he might have his fling at him with the 
rest. We met A. in Holborn shortly after 
this extraordinary rencounter, which he told 
with tears of satisfaction in his eyes, and chuck- 
ling at the anticipated effects of its announce- 
ment next day in the paper. We did not quite 
comprehend where the wit of it lay at the time ; 
nor was it easy to be detected, when the thing 
came out advantaged by type and letter-press. 
He had better have met anything that morning 
than a Common Council Man. His services 
were shortly after dispensed with, on the plea 
that his paragraphs of late had been deficient 
in point. The one in question, it must be 
owned, had an air, in the opening especially, 
proper to awaken curiosity ; and the sentiment, 
or moral, wears the aspect of humanity and 
good neighbourly feeling. But somehow the 
conclusion was not judged altogether to an- 
swer to the magnificent promise of the pre- 
mises. We traced our friend's pen afterwards 
in the "True Briton," the"Star," the "Traveller," 



— from all which he was successively dismissed, 
the Proprietors having "no further occasion 
for his services." Nothing was easier than to 
detect him. When wit failed, or topics ran low, 
there constantly appeared the following — "It 
is not generally known that the three Blue Balls at the 
Pawnbrokers' shops are the ancient arms ofLombardy. 
The Lombards were the first money-brokers in Eu- 
rope." Bob has done more to set the public 
right on this important point of blazonry, than 
the whole College of Heralds. 

The appointment of a regular wit has long 
ceased to be a part of the economy of a Morning 
Paper. Editors find their own jokes, or do as 
well without them. Parson Este, and Topham, 
brought up the set custom of "witty paragraphs" 
first in the " World." Boaden was a reigning 
paragraphist in his day, and succeeded poor 
Allen in the "Oracle." But, as we said, the 
fashion of jokes passes away ; and it would be 
difficult to discover in the biographer of Mrs. 
Siddons, any traces of that vivacity and fancy 
which charmed the whole town at the com- 
mencement of the present century. Even the 
prelusive delicacies of the present writer — 
the curt "Astrsean allusion "—would be thought 
pedantic and out of date, in these days. 

From the office of the Morning Post (for we 
may as well exhaust our Newspaper Reminis- 
cences at once) by change of property in the 
paper, we were transferred, mortifying ex- 
change ! to the office of the Albion Newspaper, 
late Rackstrow's Museum, in Fleet street. 
What a transition — from a handsome apart- 
ment, from rose-wood desks, and silver ink- 
stands, to an office — no office, but a den rather, 
but just redeemed from the occupation of dead 
monsters, of which it seemed redolent — from 
the centre of loyalty and fashion, to a focus of 
vulgarity and sedition ! Here in murky closet, 
inadequate from its square contents to the re- 
ceipt of the two bodies of Editor, and humble 
paragraph-maker, together at one time, sat in 
the discharge of his new editorial functions 
(the " Bigod " of Elia) the redoubted John Fen- 
wick. 

F., without a guinea in his pocket, and having 
left not many in the pockets of his friends whom 
he might command, had purchased (on tick 
doubtless) the whole and sole Editorship, Pro- 
prietorship, with all the rights and titles (such 
as they were worth) of the Albion from one 



46 



ELIA. 



Lovell ; of whom we know nothing, save that 
he had stood in the pillory for a libel on the 
Prince of Wales. With this hopeless concern 
— for it had been sinking ever since its com- 
mencement, and could now reckon upon not 
more than a hundred subscribers — F. resolutely 
determined upon pulling down the Government 
in the first instance, and making both our for- 
tunes by way of corollary. For seven weeks 
and more did this infatuated democrat go about 
borrowing seven-shilling pieces, and lesser 
coin, to meet the daily demands of the Stamp 
office, which allowed no credit to publications 
of that side in politics. An outcast from 
politer bread, we attached our small talents to 
the forlorn fortunes of our friend. Our occu- 
pation now was to write treason. 

Recollections of feelings — which were all 
that now remained from our first boyish heats 
kindled by the French Revolution, when, if we 
were misled, we erred in the company of some 
who are accounted very good men now — rather 
than any tendency at this time to Republican 
doctrines— assisted us in assuming a style of 
writing, while the paper lasted, consonant in 
no very under tone — to the right earnest fana- 
ticism of F. Our cue was now to insinuate, 
rather than recommend, possible abdications. 
Blocks,axes, Whitehall tribunals, were covered 



with flowers of so cunning a periphrasis — as 
Mr. Bayes says, never naming the thing directly 
— that the keen eye of an Attorney General 
was insufficient to detect the lurking snake 
among them. There were times, indeed, when 
we sighed for our more gentleman-like occu- 
pation under Stuart. But with change of 
masters it is ever change of service. Already 
one paragraph, and another, as we learned 
afterwards from a gentleman at the Treasury, 
had begun to be marked at that office, with a 
view of its being submitted at least to the at- 
tention of the proper Law Officers — when ah 
unlucky, or rather lucky epigram from our pen, 

aimed at Sir J s M h, who was on the 

eve of departing for India to reap the fruits of 
his apostacy, as F. pronounced it, (it is hardly 
worth particularising,) happening to offend the 
nice sense of Lord, or, as he then delighted to 
be called, Citizen Stanhope, deprived F. at 
once of the last hopes of a guinea from the last 
patron that had stuck by us ; and breaking up 
our establishment, left us to the safe, but 
somewhat mortifying, neglect of the Crown 
Lawyers. It was about this time, or a little 
earlier, that Dan Stuart made that curious 
confession to us, that he had " never delibe- 
rately walked into an Exhibition at Somerset 
House in his life." 



BARRENNESS OF THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY IN THE 
PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN ART. 



Hogarth excepted, can we produce any 
one painter within the last fifty years, or since 
the humour of exhibiting began, that has treated 
a story imaginatively ? By this we mean, upon 
whom his subject has so acted, that it has 
seemed to direct him — not to be arranged by 
him ? Any upon whom its leading or collateral 
points have impressed themselves so tyranni- 
cally, that he dared not treat it otherwise, lest 
he should falsify a revelation ? Any that has 
imparted to his compositions, not merely so 
much truth as is enough to convey a story with 
clearness, but that individualising property, 
which should keep the subject so treated dis- 
tinct in feature from every other subject, how- 



ever similar, and to common apprehensions 
almost identical ; so as that we might say, 
this and this part could have found an appro- 
priate place in no other picture in the world.) 
but this ? Is there anything in modern art — 
we will not demand that it should be equal — 
but in any way analogous to what Titian has 
effected, in that wonderful bringing together 1 
of two times in the " Ariadne," in the National 
Gallery ? Precipitous, with his reeling satyr 
rout about him, re-peopling and re-illuming 
suddenly the waste places, drunk with a new- 
fury beyond the grape, Bacchus, born in fire, 
fire-like flings himself at the Cretan. This is^ 
the time present. With this telling of the] 



ON THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN ART. 



47 



story— an artist, and no ordinary one, might 
remain richly proud. Guido, in his harmonious 
version of it, saw no further. But from the 
depths of the imaginative spirit Titian has 
recalled past time, and laid it contributory with 
the present to one simultaneous effect. With 
the desert all ringing with the mad cymbals 
of his followers, made lucid with the presence 
and new offers of a god, — as if unconscious of 
Bacchus, or but idly casting her eyes as upon 
some unconcerning pageant — her soul undis- 
tracted from Theseus — Ariadne is still pacing 
the solitary shore in as much heart-silence, 
and in almost the same local solitude, with 
which she awoke at day-break to catch the 
forlorn last glances of the sail that bore away 
the Athenian. 

Here are two points miraculously co-uniting ; 
fierce society, with the feeling of solitude still 
absolute ; noon-day revelations, with the ac- 
cidents of the dull grey dawn unquenched and 
lingering; the present Bacchus, with the past 
Ariadne ; two stories, with double Time ; 
separate, and harmonising. Had the artist 
made the woman one shade less indifferent to 
the God ; still more, had she expressed a 
rapture at his advent, where would have been 
the story of the mighty desolation of the heart 
previous? merged in the insipid accident of a 
flattering offer met with a welcome acceptance. 
The broken heart for Theseus was not lightly 
to be pieced up by a God. 

"We have before us a fine rough print, from a 
picture by Raphael in the Vatican. It is the 
Presentation of the new-born Eve to Adam by 
the Almighty. A fairer mother of mankind 
we might imagine, and a goodlier sire perhaps 
of men since born. But these are matters 
subordinate to the conception of the situation, 
displayed in this extraordinary production. A 
tolerably modern artist would have been satis- 
fied with tempering certain raptures of con- 
nubial anticipation, with a suitable acknow- 
ledgment to the Giver of the blessing, in the 
countenance of the first bridegroom ; something 
like the divided attention of the child (Adam 
was here a child-man) between the given toy, 
and the mother who had just blest it with the 
bauble. This is the obvious, the first-sight 
view, the superficial. An artist of a higher 
grade, considering the awful presence they 
were in, would have taken care to subtract 



something from the expression of the more 
human passion, and to heighten the more 
spiritual one. This would be as much as an 
exhibition-goer, from the opening of Somerset 
House to last year's show, has been en- 
couraged to look for. It is obvious to hint at 
a lower expression yet, in a picture that, for 
respects of drawing and colouring, might be 
deemed not wholly inadmissible within these 
art-fostering walls, in which the raptures should 
be as ninety-nine, the gratitude as one, or 
perhaps zero ! By neither the one passion 
nor the other has Raphael expounded the 
situation of Adam. Singly upon his brow sits 
the absorbing sense of wonder at the created 
miracle. The moment is seized by the intuitive 
artist, perhaps not self-conscious of his art, in 
which neither of the conflicting emotions — a 
moment how abstracted ! — have had time .to 
spring up, or to battle for indecorous mastery. 
— We have seen a landscape of a justly ad- 
mired neoteric, in which he aimed at deline- 
ating a fiction, one of the most severely beautiful 
in antiquity — the gardens of the Hesperi-des. 
To do Mr. justice, he had painted a lau- 
dable orchard, with fitting seclusion, and a 
veritable dragon (of which a Polypheme, by 
Poussin, is somehow a fac-simile for the situ- 
ation), looking over into the world shut out 
backwards, so that none but a " still-climbing 
Hercules " could hope to catch a peep at the 
admired Ternary of Recluses. No conventual 
porter could keep his eyes better than thiscustos 
with the " lidless eyes." He not only sees that 
none do intrude into that privacy, but, as clear 
as daylight, that none but Hercules aut Diabolus 
by any manner of means can.' So far all is 
well. We have absolute solitude here or no- 
where. Ah extra the damsels are snug enough. 
But here the artist's courage seems to have 
failed him. He began to pity his pretty charge, 
and, to comfort the irksomeness, has peopled 
their solitude with a bevy of fair attendants, 
maids of honour, or ladies of the bed-chamber, 
according to the approved etiquette at a court 
of the nineteenth century ; giving to the whole 
scene the air of a fete champttre, if we will but 
excuse the absence of the gentlemen. This is 
well, and Watteauish. But what is become 
of the solitary mystery — the 



That sing i 



Daughters three, 
round the golden tree ? 



48 



ELIA. 



This is not the way in which Poussin would 
have treated this subject. 

The paintings, or rather the stupendous 
architectural designs, of a modern artist, have 
been urged as objections to the theory of our 
motto. They are of a character, we confess, 
to stagger it. His towered structures are of 
the highest order of the material sublime. 
"Whether they were dreams, or transcripts of 
some elder workmanship — Assyrian ruins old 
— restored by this mighty artist, they satisfy 
our most stretched and craving conceptions 
of the glories of the antique world. It is a 
pity that they were ever peopled. On that 
side, the imagination of the artist halts, and 
appears defective. Let us examine the point 
of the story in the " Belshazzar's Feast." We 
will introduce it by an apposite anecdote. 

The court historians of the day record, that 
at the first dinner given by the late King (then 
Prince Regent) at the Pavilion, the following 
characteristic frolic was played off. The guests 
were select and admiring; the banquet pro- 
fuse and admirable; the lights lustrous and 
oriental ; the eye was perfectly dazzled with 
the display of plate, among which the great 
gold salt-cellar, brought from the regalia in 
the Tower for this especial purpose, itself a, 
tower! stood conspicuous for its magnitude. 
And now the Rev. * * * *, the then admired 
court Chaplain, was proceeding with the grace, 
when, at a signal given, the lights were sud- 
denly overcast, and a huge transparency was 
discovered, in which glittered in gold letters — 

K Brighton — Earthquake — Swallow-up- 
alive !" 

Imagine the confusion of the guests ; the 
Georges and garters, jewels, bracelets, moulted 
upon the occasion ! The fans dropped, and 
picked up the next morning by the sly court 
pages! Mrs. Fitz-what's-her-name fainting, 
and the Countess of * * * holding the smelling- 
bottle, till the good-humoured Prince caused 
harmony to be restored, by calling in fresh 
candles, and declaring that the whole was 
nothing but a pantomime hoax, got up by the 
ingenious Mr. Farley, of Covent Garden, from 
hints which his Royal Highness himself had 
furnished ! Then imagine the infinite applause 
that followed, the mutual rallyings, the declar- 
ations that " they were not much frightened," 
of the assembled galaxy. 



The point of time in the picture exactly 
answers to the appearance of the transparency 
in the anecdote. The huddle, the flutter, the 
bustle, the escape, the alarm, and the mock 
alarm; the prettinesses heightened by con- 
sternation; the courtier's fear which was 
flattery; and the lady's which was affectation; 
all that we may conceive to have taken place 
in a mob of Brighton courtiers, sympathising 
with the well-acted surprise of their sove- 
reign ; all this, and no more, is exhibited by 
the well-dressed lords and ladies in the Hall 
of Belus. Just this sort of consternation we 
have seen among a flock of disquieted wild 
geese at the report only of a gun having gone 
off! 

But is this vulgar fright, this mere animal 
anxiety for the preservation of their persons, 
— such as we have witnessed at a theatre, 
when a slight alarm of fire has been given — 
an adequate exponent of a supernatural terror? 
the way in which the finger of God, writing 
judgments, would have been met by the 
withered conscience ? There is a human fear, 
and a divine fear. The one is disturbed, rest- 
less, and bent upon escape. The other is 
bowed down, effortless, passive. When the 
spirit appeared before Eliphaz in the visions 
of the night, and the hair of his flesh stood 
up, was it in the thoughts of the Temanite to 
ring the bell of his chamber, or to call up the 
servants? But let us see in the text what 
there is to justify all this huddle of vulgai 
consternation. 

From the words of Daniel it appears that 
Belshazzar had made a great feast to a thou- 
sand of his lords, and drank wine before the 
thousand. The golden and silver vessels are 
gorgeously enumerated, with the princes, the 
king's concubines, and his wives. Then fol- 
lows — 

" In the same hour came forth fingers of a 
man's hand, and wrote over against the candle- 
stick upon the plaster of the wall of the king's 
palace ; and the king saw the part of the hand 
that wrote. Then the king's countenance was 
changed, and his thoughts troubled him, so 
that the joints of his loins were loosened, and 
his knees smote one against another." 

This is the plain text. By no hint can it 
be otherwise inferred, but that the appear- j 
ance was solely confined to the fancy of Bel- 



ON THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN ART. 



49 



shazzar, that his single brain was troubled. 
Not a word is spoken of its being seen by any 
else there present, not even by the queen her- 
self, who merely undertakes for the inter- 
pretation of the phenomenon, as related to 
her, doubtless, by her husband. The lords 
are simply said to be astonished ; i. e. at the 
trouble and the change of countenance in 
their sovereign. Even the prophet does not 
appear to have seen the scroll, which the king 
saw. He recals it only, as Joseph did the 
Dream to the King of Egypt. " Then was the 
part of the hand sent from him [the Lord], 
and this writing was written." He speaks of 
the phantasm as past. 

Then what becomes of this needless multi- 
plication of the miracle? this message to a 
royal conscience, singly expressed — for it was 
said, " Thy kingdom is divided," — simultane- 
ously impressed upon the fancies of a thousand 
courtiers, who were implied in it neither 
directly nor grammatically ? 

But admitting the artist's own version of 
the story, and that the sight was seen also by 
the thousand courtiers — let it have been visible 
to all Babylon — as the knees of Belshazzar 
were shaken, and his countenance troubled, 
even so would the knees of every man in 
Babylon, and their countenances, as of an 
individual man, have been troubled; bowed, 
bent down, so would they have remained, 
stupor-fixed, with no thought of struggling 
with that inevitable judgment. 

Not all that is optically possible to be seen, 
is to be shown in every picture. The eye 
delightedly dwells upon the brilliant individu- 
alities in a " Marriage at Cana," by Veronese, 
or Titian, to the very texture and colour of 
the wedding-garments, the ring glittering upon 
the bride's fingers, the metal and fashion of 
the wine-pots; for at such seasons there is 
leisure and luxury to be curious. But in a 
f day of judgment," or in a " day of lesser 
horrors, yet divine," as at the impious feast 
of Belshazzar, the eye should see, as the 
actual eye of an agent or patient in the imme- 
diate scene would see, only in masses and 
indistinction. Not only the female attire and 
jewelry exposed to the critical eye of fashion, 
as minutely as the dresses in a Lady's Maga- 
zine, in the criticised picture,— but perhaps 
the curiosities of anatomical science, and stu- 

[SECOND SERIES.] 



died diversities of posture, in the falling angels 
and sinners of Michael Angelo, — have no busi- 
ness in their great subjects. There was no 
leisure for them. 

By a wise falsification, the great masters of 
painting got at their true conclusions ; by not 
showing the actual appearances, that is, all 
that was to be seen at any given moment by 
an indifferent eye, but only what the eye 
might be supposed to see in the doing or 
suffering of some portentous action. Suppose 
the moment of the swallowing up of Pompeii. 
There they were to be seen — houses, columns 
architectural proportions, differences of public 
and private buildings, men and women at 
their standing occupations, the diversified 
thousand postures, attitudes, dresses, in some 
confusion truly, but physically they were 
visible. But what eye saw them at that 
eclipsing moment, which reduces confusion to 
a kind of unity, and when the senses are 
upturned from their proprieties, when sight 
and hearing are a feeling only ? A thousand 
years have passed, and we are at leisure to 
contemplate the weaver fixed standing at his 
shuttle, the baker at his oven, and to turn 
over with antiquarian coolness the pots and 
pans of Pompeii. 

" Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon, and 
thou, Moon, in the valley of Ajalon." "Who, 
in reading this magnificent Hebraism, in his 
conception, sees aught but the heroic son of 
Nun, with the out-stretched arm, and the 
greater and lesser light obsequious ? Doubt- 
less there were to be seen hill and dale, and 
chariots and horsemen, on open plain, or 
winding by secret defiles, and all the circum- 
stances and stratagems of war. But whose 
eyes would have been conscious of this array 
at the interposition of the synchronic miracle ? 
Yet in the picture of this subject by the artist 
of the ' Belshazzar's Feast' — no ignoble work 
either — the marshalling and landscape of the 
war is everything, the miracle sinks into an 
anecdote of the day ; and the eye may " dart 
through rank and file traverse" for some 
minutes, before it shall discover, among his 
armed followers, which is Joshua! Not modern 
art alone, but ancient, where only it is to be 
found if anywhere, can be detected erring, 
from defect of this imaginative faculty. The 
world has nothing to show of the preternatural 



sn> 



ELIA. 



in painting, transcending the figure of Lazarus 
bursting his grave-clothes, in the great picture 
at Angerstein's. It seems a thing between 
two beings. A ghastly horror at itself struggles 
with newly-apprehending gratitude at second 
life bestowed. It cannot forget that it was a 
ghost. It has hardly felt that it is a body. 
It has to tell of the world of spirits. — Was it 
from a feeling, that the crowd of half-impas- 
sioned by-standers, and the still more irrele- 
vant herd of passers-by at a distance, who 
have not heard, or but faintly have been told 
of the passing miracle, admirable as they are 
in design and hue — for it is a glorified work — 
do not respond adequately to the action — that 
the single figure of the Lazarus has been 
attributed to Michael Angelo, and the mighty 
Sebastian unfairly robbed of the fame of the 
greater half of the interest ? Now that there 
were not indifferent passers-by within actual 
scope of the eyes of those present at the 
miraele, to whom the sound of it had but 
faintly, or not at all, reached, it would be 
hardihood to deny ; but would they see them ? 
or can the mind in the Conception of it admit 
of such unconcerning objects; can it think 
of them at all? or what associating league 
to the imagination can there be between 
the seers, and the seers not, of a presential 
miracle ? 

Were an artist to paint upon demand a 
picture of a Dryad, we will ask whether, in 
the present low state of expectation, the 
patron would not, or ought not be fully 
satisfied with a beautiful naked figure recum- 
bent under wide -stretched oaks? Disseat 
those woods, and place the same figure among 
fountains, and fall of pellucid water, and you 
have a — Naiad ! Not so in a rough print we 
have seen after Julio Romano, we think — for 
it is long since — there, by no process, with 
mere change of scene, could the figure have 
reciprocated characters. Long, grotesque, 
fantastic, yet with a grace of her own, beau- 
tiful in convolution and distortion, linked to 
her connatural tree, co-twisting with its limbs 
her own, till both seemed either — these, ani- 
mated branches ; those, disanimated members 
— yet the animal and vegetable lives suffi- 
ciently kept distinct — his Dryad lay — an ap- 
proximation of two natures, which to conceive, 
it must be seen ; analogous to, not the same 



with, the delicacies of Ovidian transforma- 
tions. 

To the lowest subjects, and, to a superficial 
comprehension, the most barren, the Great 
Masters gave loftiness and fruitfulness. The 
large eye of genius saw in the meanness of 
present objects their capabilities of treatment 
from their relations to some grand Past 01 
Future. How has Raphael — we must still 
linger about the Vatican — treated the humble 
craft of the ship-builder, in his "Building of 
the Ark?" It is in that scriptural series, to 
which we have referred, and which, judging 
from some fine rough old graphic sketches of 
them which we possess, seem to be of a higher 
and more poetic grade than even the Cartoons. 
The dim of sight are the timid and the shrink- 
ing. There is a cowardice in modern art. As 
the Frenchmen, of whom Coleridge's friend 
made the prophetic guess at Rome, from the 
beard and horns of the Moses of Michael 
Angelo collected no inferences beyond that 
of a He Goat and a Cornuto; so from this 
subject, of mere mechanic promise, it would 
instinctively turn away, as from one incapable 
of investiture with any grandeur. The dock- 
yards at Woolwich would object derogatory 
associations. The dep6t at Chatham would 
be the mote and the beam in its intellectual 
eye. But not to the nautical preparations in 
the ship-yards of Civita Vecchia did Raphael 
look for instructions, when he imagined the 
Building of the Vessel that was to be con- 
servatory of the wrecks of the species of 
drowned mankind. In the intensity of the 
action, he keeps ever out of sight the mean- 
ness of the operation. There is the Patriarch, 
in calm forethought, and with holy prescience, 
giving directions. And there are his agents 
— the solitary but sufficient Three — hewing, 
sawing, every one with the might and earnest- 
ness of a Demiurgus; under some instinctive 
rather than technical guidance! giant-muscled; 
every one a Hercules, or liker to those Vul 
canian Three, that in sounding caverns under 
Mongibello wrought in fire — Brontes, and black 
Steropes, and Pyracmon. So work the work- 
men that should repair a world ! 

Artists again err in the confounding of 
poetic with pictorial subjects. In the latter, the 
exterior accidents are nearly everything, the 
unseen qualities as nothing. Othello's colour 



ON THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN ART. 



51 



— the infirmities and corpulence of a Sir John 
Falstaff— do they haunt us perpetually in the 
reading ? or are they obtruded upon our con- 
ceptions one time for ninety-nine that we are 
lost in admiration at the respective moral or 
intellectual attributes of the character I But 
in a picture Othello is always a Blackamoor ; 
and the other only Plump Jack. Deeply 
corporealised, and enchained hopelessly in the 
grovelling fetters of externality, must be the 
mind, to which, in its better moments, the 
image of the high-souled, high-intelligenced 
Quixote — the errant Star of Knighthood, made 
more tender by eclipse — has never presented 
itself, divested from the unhallowed accom- 
paniment of a Sancho, or a rabblement at the 
heels of Rosinante. That man has read his 
book by halves; he has laughed, mistaking 
his author's purport, which was — tears. The 
artist that pictures Quixote (and it is in this 
degrading point that he is every season held 
up at our Exhibitions) in the shallow hope ot 
exciting mirth, would have joined the rabble 
at the heels of his starved steed. We wish 
not to see that counterfeited, which we would 
not have wished to see in the reality. Con- 
scious of the heroic inside of the noble Quixote, 
who, on hearing that his withered person was 
passing, would have stepped over his threshold 
to gaze upon his forlorn habiliments, and the 
"strange bed-fellows which misery brings a 
man acquainted w«ith?" Shade of Cervantes! 
who in thy Second Part could put into the 
mouth of thy Quixote those high aspirations 
of a super-chivalrous gallantry, where he 
replies to one of the shepherdesses, apprehen- 
sive that he would spoil their pretty net- works, 
and inviting him to be a guest with them, in 
accents like these: "Truly, fairest Lady, 
Actseon was not more astonished when he 
saw Diana bathing herself at the fountain, 
than I have been in beholding your beauty : 
I commend the manner of your pastime, and 
thank you for your kind offers ; and, if I may 
serve you, so I may be sure you will be 
obeyed, you may command me : for my pro- 
fession is this, To show myself thankful, and 
a doer of good to all sorts of people, especi- 
ally of the rank that your person shows you 
to be ; and if those nets, as they take up but 
a little piece of ground, should take up the 
whole world, I would seek out new worlds to 



pass through, rather than break them : and 
(he adds) that you may give credit to this my 
exaggeration, behold at least he that pro- 
miseth you this, is Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
if haply this name hath come to your hearing." 
Illustrious Romancer ! were the "fine frenzies," 
which possessed the brain of thy own Quixote, 
a fit subject, as in this Second Part, to be 
exposed to the jeers of Duennas and Serving 
Men ? to be monstered, and shown up at the 
heartless banquets of great men? "Was that 
pitiable infirmity, which in thy First Part mis- 
leads him, always from within, into half-ludicrous, 
but more than half-compassionable and admi- 
rable errors, not infliction enough from heaven, 
that men by studied artifices must devise and 
practise upon the humour, to inflame where 
they should soothe it? Why, Goneril would 
have blushed to practise upon the abdicated 
king at this rate, and the she-wolf Regan not 
have endured to play the pranks upon his fled 
wits, which thou hast made thy Quixote suffer 
in Duchesses' halls, and at the hands of that 
unworthy nobleman *. 

In the First Adventures, even, it needed all 
the art of the most consummate artist in the 
Book way that the world hath yet seen, to 
keep up in the mind of the reader the heroic 
attributes of the character without relaxing ; 
so as absolutely that they shall suffer no alloy 
from the debasing fellowship of the clown. 
If it ever obtrudes itself as a disharmony, are 
we inclined to laugh ; or not, rather, to indulge 
a contrary emotion? — Cervantes, stung, per- 
chance, by the relish with which his Reading 
Public had received the fooleries of the man, 
more to their palates than the generosities of 
the master, in the sequel let his pen run riot, 
lost the harmony and the balance, and sacri- 
ficed a great idea to the taste of his contempo- 
raries. We know that in the present day the 
Knight has fewer admirers than the Squire. 
Anticipating, what did actually happen to him 
— as afterwards it did to his scarce inferior 
follower, the A uthor of " Guzman de Alfarache " 
— that some less knowing hand would prevent 
him by a spurious Second Part; and judging 
that it would be easier for his competitor to 
out-bid him in the comicalities, than in the 
romance, of his work, he abandoned his Knight, 

* Yet from this Second Part, our cried-up pictures are 
mostly selected ; the waiting- women with beards, &c. 
e 2 



52 



ELIA. 



and has fairly set up the Squire for his Hero. 
For what else has he unsealed the eyes of 
Sancho ? and instead of that twilight state of 
semi-insanity — the madness at second-hand — 
the contagion, caught from a stronger mind 
infected — that war between native cunning, 
and hereditary deference, with which he has 
hitherto accompanied his master — two for a 



pair almost — does he substitute a downright 
Knave, with open eyes, for his own ends only 
following a confessed Madman; and offering 
at one time to lay, if not actually laying, hands 
upon him! From the moment that Sancho 
loses his reverence, Don Quixote is become— 
a treatable lunatic. Our artists handle him 
accordingly. 



THE WEDDING. 



I do not know when I have been better 
pleased than at being invited last week to be 
present at the wedding of a friend's daughter. 
I like to make one at these ceremonies, which 
to us old people give back our youth in a 
manner, and restore our gayest season, in the 
remembrance of our own success, or the 
regrets, scarcely less tender, of our own youth- 
ful disappointments, in this point of a settle- 
ment. On these occasions I am sure to be in 
good-humour for a week or two after, and 
enjoy a reflected honey-moon. Being without 
a family, I am flattered with these temporary 
adoptions into a friend's family ; I feel a sort 
of cousinhood, or uncleship, for the season ; I 
am inducted into degrees of affinity ; and, in 
the participated socialities of the little com- 
munity, I lay down for a brief while my solitary 
bachelorship. I carry this humour so far, that 
I take it unkindly to be left out, even when 
a funeral is going on in the house of a dear 
friend. But to my subject. 

The union itself had been long. settled, but 
its celebration had been hitherto deferred, to 
an almost unreasonable state of suspense in 
the lovers, by some invincible prejudices which 
the bride's father had unhappily contracted 
upon the subject of the too early marriages of 
females. He has been lecturing any time 
these five years — for to that length the court- 
ship has been protracted — upon the propriety 
of putting off the solemnity, till the lady should 
have completed her five-and-twentieth year. 
We all began to be afraid that a suit, which as 
yet had abated of none of its ardours, might at 
last be lingered on, till passion had time to 
cool, and love go out in the experiment. But 



a little wheedling on the part of his wife, who 
was by no means a party to these overstrained 
notions, joined to some serious expostulations 
on that of his friends, who, from the growing 
infirmities of the old gentleman, could not 
promise ourselves many years' enjoyment of 
his company, and were anxious, tahring matters 
to a conclusion during his lifetime, at length 
prevailed ; and on Monday last the daughter 
of my old friend, Admiral , having at- 
tained the womanly age of nineteen, was con- 
ducted to the church by her pleasant cousin 

J , who told some few years older. 

Before the youthful part of my female 
readers express their indignation at the abomi- 
nable loss of time occasioned to the lovers by 
the preposterous notions of my old friend, they 
will do well to consider the reluctance which 
a fond parent naturally feels at parting with 
his child. To this unwillingness, I believe, in 
most cases may be traced the difference of 
opinion on this point between child and parent, 
whatever pretences of interest or prudence 
may be held out to cover it. The hard-heart- 
edness of fathers is a fine theme for romance 
writers, a sure and moving topic ; but is there 
not something untender, to say no more of it, 
in the hurry which a beloved child is sometimes 
in to tear herself from the paternal stock, and 
commit herself to strange graftings ? The case 
is heightened- where the lady, as in the present 
instance, happens to be an only child. I do 
not understand these matters experimentally, 
but I can make a shrewd guess at the wounded 
pride of a parent upon these occasions. It is 
no new observation, I believe, that a lover in 
most cases has no rival so much to be feared 



THE WEDDING. 



53 



as the father. Certainly there is a jealousy in 
unparallel subjects, which is little less heart- 
rending than the passion which we more strictly 
christen by that name. Mothers' scruples are 
more easily got over ; for this reason, I suppose, 
that the protection transferred to a husband 
is less a derogation and a loss to their authority 
than to the paternal. Mothers, besides, have 
a trembling foresight, which paints the incon- 
veniences (impossible to be conceived in the 
same degree by the other parent) of a life of 
forlorn celibacy, which the refusal of a tolerable 
match may entail upon their child. Mothers' 
instinct is a surer guide here, than the cold 
reasonings of a father on such a topic. To this 
instinct may be imputed, and by it alone may 
be excused, the unbeseeming artifices, by which 
some wives push on the matrimonial projects 
of their daughters, which the husband, how- 
ever approving, shall entertain with com- 
parative indifference. A little shamelessness 
on this head is pardonable. "With this ex- 
planation, forwardness becomes a grace, and 
maternal importunity receives the name of a 
virtue. — But the parson stays, while I prepos- 
terously assume his office ; I am preaching, 
while the bride is on the threshold. 

Nor let any of my female readers suppose 
that the sage reflections which have just 
escaped me have the obliquest tendency of 
application to the young lady, who, it will be 
seen, is about to venture upon a change in her 
condition, at a mature and competent age, and not 
without the fullest approbation of all parties. 
I only deprecate very hasty marriages. 

It had been fixed that the ceremony should 
be gone through at an early hour, to give time 
for a little dejeune afterwards, to which a select 
party of friends had been invited. We were 
in church a little before the clock struck eight. 

Nothing could be more judicious or graceful 
than the dress of the bride-maids — the three 
charming Miss Foresters — on this morning. 
To give the bride an opportunity of shining 
singly, they had come habited all in green. I 
am ill at describing female apparel ; but while 
she stood at the altar in vestments white and 
candid as her thoughts, a sacrificial whiteness, 
they assisted in robes, such as might become 
Diana's nymphs — Foresters indeed — as such 
wlio had not yet come to the resolution 
of putting off cold virginity. These young 



maids, not being so blest as to have a mother 
living, I am told, keep single for their father's 
sake, and live all together so happy with their 
remaining parent, that the hearts of their lovers 
are ever broken with the prospect (so inaus- 
picious to their hopes) of such uninterrupted 
and provoking home-comfort. Gallant girls ! 
each a victim worthy of Iphigenia ! 

I do not know what business I have to be 
present in solemn places. I cannot divest me 
of an unseasonable disposition to levity upon 
the most awful occasions. I was never cut out 
for a public functionary. Ceremony and I 
have long shaken hands ; but I could not resist 
the importunities of the young lady's father, 
whose gout unhappily confined him at home, 
to act as parent on this occasion, and give away 
the bride. Something ludicrous occurred to me 
at this most serious of all moments— a sense 
of my unfitness to have the disposal, even in 
imagination, of the sweet young creature beside 
me. I fear I was betrayed to some lightness, 
for the awful eye of the parson — and the rector's 
eye of Saint Mildred's in the Poultry is no 
trifle of a rebuke — was upon me in an instant, 
souring my incipient jest to the tristful severities 
of a funeral. 

This was the only misbehaviour which I can 
plead to upon this solemn occasion, unless what 
was objected to me after the ceremony, by one 

of the handsome Miss T s, be accounted a 

solecism. She was pleased to say that she had 
never seen a gentleman before me give away a 
bride, in black. Now black has been my ordi- 
nary apparel so long — indeed I take it to be 
the proper costume of an author — the stage 
sanctions it — that to have appeared in some 
lighter colour would have raised more mirth 
at my expense, than the anomaly had created 
censure. But I could perceive that the bride's 
mother, and some elderly ladies present (God 
bless them !) would have been well content, it 
I had come in any other colour than that. But 
I got over the omen by a lucky apologue, which 
I remembered out of Pilpay, or some Indian 
author, of all the birds being invited to the 
linnet's wedding, at which, when ail the rest 
came in their gayest feathers, the raven alone 
apologised for his cloak because " he had no 
other." This tolerably reconciled the elders. 
But with the young people all was merriment, 
and shaking of hands, and congratulations, and 



54 



ELIA. 



kissing away the bride's tears, and kissing from 
her in return, till a young lady, who assumed 
some experience in these matters, having worn 
the nuptial bands some four or five weeks 
longer than her friend, re'scued her, archly 
observing, with half an eye upon the bride- 
groom, that at this rate she would have " none 
left." 

My friend the admiral was in fine wig and 
buckle on this occasion — a striking contrast 
to his usual neglect of personal appearance. 
He did not once shove up his borrowed locks 
(his custom ever at his morning studies) to 
betray the few grey stragglers of his own beneath 
them. He wore an aspect of thoughtful satis- 
faction. I trembled for the hour, which at 
length approached, when after a protracted 
breakfast of three hours — if stores of cold fowls, 
tongues, hams, botargoes, dried fruits, wines, 
cordials, &c, can deserve so meagre an appel- 
lation — the coach was announced, which was 
come to carry off the bride and bridegroom for 
a season, as custom has sensibly ordained, into 
the country ; upon which design, wishing them 
a felicitous journey, let us return to the as- 
sembled guests. 

As when a well-graced actor leaves the stage, 

The eyes of men 

Are idly bent on him that enters next, 

so idly did we bend our eyes upon one another, 
when the chief performers in the morning's 
pageant had vanished. None told his tale. 
None sipped her glass. The poor Admiral 
made an effort — it was not much. I had 
anticipated so far. Even the infinity of full 
satisfaction, that had betrayed itself through 
the prim looks and quiet deportment of his 
lady, began to wane into something of mis- 
giving. No one knew whether to take their 
leaves or stay. "We seemed assembled upon a 
silly occasion. In this crisis, betwixt tarrying 
and departure, I must do justice to a foolish 
talent of mine, which had otherwise like to 
have brought me into disgrace in the fore-part 
of the day ; I mean a power, in any emergency, 
of thinking and giving vent to all manner of 
strange nonsense. In this awkward dilemma 
I found it sovereign. I rattled off some of my 
most excellent absurdities. All were willing 
to be relieved, at any expense of reason, from 



the pressure of the intolerable vacuum which 
had succeeded to the morning bustle. By this 
means I was fortunate in keeping together the 
better part of the company to a late hour ; and 
a rubber of whist (the Admiral's favourite 
game) with some rare strokes of chance as well 
as skill, which came opportunely on his side — 
lengthened out till midnight — dismissed the 
old gentleman at last to his bed with com- 
paratively easy spirits. 

I have been at my old friend's various times 
since. I do not know a visiting place where 
every guest is so perfectly at his ease ; nowhere, 
where harmony is so strangely the result of 
confusion. Everybody is at cross purposes, 
yet the effect is so much better than uniformity. 
Contradictory orders ; servants pulling one 
way ; master and mistress driving some other, 
yet both diverse ; visiters huddled up in 
corners ; chairs unsymmetrised ; candles dis- 
posed by chance ; meals at odd hours, tea and 
supper at once, or the latter preceding the 
former ; the host and the guest conferring, yet 
each upon a different topic, each understanding 
himself, neither trying to understand or hear 
the other ; draughts and politics, chess and 
political economy, cards and conversation on 
nautical matters, going on at once, without the 
hope, or indeed the wish, of distinguishing 
them, make it altogether the most perfect con- 
cordia discors you shall meet with. Yet some- 
how the old house is not quite what it should 
be. The Admiral still enjoys his pipe, but he 
has no Miss Emily to fill it for him. The 
instrument stands where it stood, but she is 
gone, whose delicate touch could sometimes 
for a short minute appease the warring elements. 
He has learnt, as Marvel expresses it, to 
" make his destiny his choice." He bears 
bravely up, but he does not come out with his 
flashes of wild wit so thick as formerly. His 
sea songs seldomer escape him. His wife, too, 
looks as if she wanted some younger body to 
scold and set to rights. "We all miss a junior 
presence. It is wonderful how one young 
maiden freshens up, and keeps green, the 
paternal roof. Old and young seem to have 
an interest in her, so long as she is not abso- 
lutely disposed of. The youthfuiness of the 
house is flown. Emily is married. 



REJOICINGS UPON THE NEW YEAR'S COMING OF AGE. 



55 



REJOICINGS UPON THE NEW YEAR'S COMING OF AGE. 



The Old Year being dead, and the New Year 
coming of age, which he does, by Calendar 
Law, as soon as the breath is out of the old 
gentleman's body, nothing would serve the 
young spark but he must give a dinner upon 
the occasion, to which all the Days in the year 
were invited. The Festivals, whom he deputed 
as his stewards, were mightily taken with the 
notion. They had been engaged time out of 
mind, they said, in providing mirth and good 
cheer for mortals below ; and it was time they 
should have a taste of their own bounty. It 
was stiffly debated among them, whether the 
Fasts should be admitted. Some said, the 
appearance of such lean, starved guests, with 
their mortified faces, would pervert the ends 
of the meeting. But the objection was over- 
ruled by Christmas Day, who had a design 
upon Ash Wednesday (as you shall hear), and 
a mighty desire to see how the old Domine 
would behave himself in his cups. Only the 
Vigils were requested to come with their lan- 
terns, to light the gentlefolks home at night. 

All the Days came to their day. Covers 
were provided for three hundred and sixty-five 
guests at the principal table ; with an occasional 
knife and fork at the side-board for the Ticenty- 
Ninth of February. 

I should have told you, that cards of invita- 
tion had been issued. The carriers were the 
Hours; twelve little, merry, whirligig foot- 
pages, as you should desire to see, that went 
all round, and found out the persons invited 
well enough, with the exception of Easter Day, 
Shrove Tuesday, and a few such Moveables, who 
had lately shifted their quarters. 

Well, they all met at last, foul Days, fine 
Days, all sorts of Days, and a rare din they 
made of it. There was nothing but, Hail ! 
fellow Day, — well met — brother Day — sister 
Day — only Lady Day kept a little on the aloof, 
and seemed somewhat scornful. Yet some 
said, Twelfth Day cut her out and out, for she 



came in a tiffany suit, white and gold, like a 
queen on a frost-cake, all royal, glittering, and 
Epiphanous. The rest came, some in green, 
some in white — but old Lent and his family were 
not yet out of mourning. Rainy Days came 
in, dripping ; and sun-shiny Days helped them 
to change their stockings. Wedding Day was 
there in his marriage finery, a little the worse 
for wear. Pay Day came late, as he always 
does ; and Doomsday sent word — he might be 
expected. 

April Fool (as my young lord's jester) took 
upon himself to marshal the guests, and wild 
work he made with it. It would have posed 
old Erra Pater to have found out any given 
Day in the year, to erect a scheme upon — good 
Days, bad Days, were so shuffled together, to 
the confounding of all sober horoscopy. 

He had stuck the Twenty-First of June next 
to the Twenty-Second of December, and the former 
looked like a Maypole siding a marrow-bone. 
Ash Wednesday got wedged in (as was con- 
certed) betwixt Christmas and Lord Mayor's 
Days. Lord ! how he laid about him ! Nothing 
but barons of beef and turkeys would go down 
with him — to the great greasing and detriment 
of his new sackcloth bib and tucker. And 
still Christmas Day was at his elbow, plying 
him with the wassail-bowl, till he roared, and 
hiccupp'd, and protested there was no faith in 
dried ling, but commended it to the devil for 
a sour, windy, acrimonious, censorious, hy-po- 
crit-crit-critical mess, and no dish for a gentle- 
man. Then he dipt his fist into the middle of 
the great custard that stood before his left-hand 
neighbour, and daubed his hungry beard all 
over with it, till you would have taken him 
for the Last iTay in December, it so hung in 
icicles. 

At another part of the table, Shrove Tuesday 
was helping the Second of September to some 
cock broth, — which courtesy the latter re- 
turned with the delicate thigh of a hen 



56 



ELIA. 



pheasant — so there was no love lost for that 
matter. The Last of Lent was spunging upon 
Shrovetide's pancakes; which April Fool per- 
ceiving, told him he did well, for pancakes 
were proper to a good fry-day. 

In another part, a hubbub arose about the 
Thirtieth of January, who, it seems, being a sour 
puritanic character, that thought nobody's 
meat good or sanctified enough for him, had 
smuggled into the room a calf's head, which 
he had had cooked at home for that purpose, 
thinking to feast thereon incontinently; but 
as it lay in the dish March Manyweathers, who 
is a very fine lady, and subject to the meagrims, 
screamed out there was a "human head in the 
platter," and raved about Herodias' daughter 
to that degree, that the obnoxious viand was 
obliged to be removed; nor did she recover 
her stomach till she had gulped down a 
Restorative, confected of Oak Apple, which the 
merry Twenty-Ninth of May always carries 
about with him for that purpose. 

The King's health * being called for after this, 
a notable dispute arose between iheTwelfth of 
August (a zealous old Whig gentlewoman), and 
the Twenty Third of April (a new-fangled lady 
of the Tory stamp), as to which of them should 
have the honour to propose it. August grew 
hot upon the matter, affirming time out of 
mind the prescriptive right to have lain with 
her, till her rival had basely supplanted her ; 
whom she represented as little better than a 
kept mistress, who went about in fine clothes, 
while she . (the legitimate Birthday) had 
scarcely a rag, &c. 

April Fool, being made mediator, confirmed 
the right in the strongest form of words to the 
appellant, but decided for peace' sake that the 
exercise of it should remain with the present 
possessor. At the same time, he slyly rounded 
the first lady in the ear, that an action might 
lie against the Crown for bi-geny. 

It beginning to grow a little duskish, Candlemas 
lustily bawled out for lights, which was opposed 
by all the Days, who protested against burning 
daylight. Then fair water was handed round 
in silver ewers, and the same lady was observed 
to take an unusual time in Washing herself. 

May Day, with that sweetness which is 
peculiar to her, in a neat speech proposing the 
health of the founder, crowned her goblet (and 
* King George IV. 



by her example the rest of the company) with 
garlands. This being done, the lordly New 
Year from the upper end of the table, in a 
cordial but somewhat lofty tone, returned 
thanks. He felt proud on an occasion of 
meeting so many of his worthy father's late 
tenants, promised to improve their farms, and 
at the same time to abate (if anything was 
found unreasonable) in their rents. 

At the mention of this, the four Quarter Days 
involuntarily looked at each other, and smiled ; 
April Fool whistled to an old tune of " New 
Brooms ;" and a surly old rebel at the further 
end of the table (who was discovered to be no 
other than the Fifth of November) muttered out, 
distinctly enough to be heard by the whole 
company, words to this effect, that, " when the 
old one is gone, he is a fool that looks for a 
better." Which rudeness of his, the guests 
resenting, unanimously voted his expulsion ; 
and the male-content was thrust out neck and 
heels into the cellar, as the properest place for 
such a boutefeu and firebrand as he had shown 
himself to be. 

Order being restored — the young lord (who, 
to say truth, had been a little ruffled, and put 
beside his oratory) in as few, and yet as obliging 
words as possible, assured them of entire wel- 
come ; and, with a graceful turn, singling out 
poor Twenty Ninth of February, that had sate 
all this while mumchance at the side-board, 
begged to couple his health with that of the 
good company before him — which he drank 
accordingly ; observing, that he had not seen 
his honest face any time these four years — 
with anumber of endearing expressions besides. 
At the same time, removing the solitary Day 
from the forlorn seat which had been assigned 
him, he stationed him at his own board, some- 
where between the Greek Calends and Latter 
Lammas. 

Ash Wednesday, being now called upon for a 
song, with his eyes fast stuck in his head, and 
as well as the Canary he had swallowed would 
give him leave, struck up a Carol, which 
Christmas Day had taught him for the nonce ; 
and was followed by the latter, who gave 
" Miserere " in fine style, hitting off the mump- 
ing notes and lengthened drawl of Old Mortifi- 
cation with infinite humour. April Fool swore 
they had exchanged conditions ; but Good 
Friday was observed to look extremely grave ; 



CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD. 



57 



and Sunday held her fan before her face, that 
she might not be seen to smile. 

Shrove-tide, Lord Mayor's Day, and April Fool, 
next joined in a glee — 

Which is the properest day to drink ? 
in which all the Days chiming in, made a merry 
burden. 

They next fell to quibbles and conundrums. 
The question being proposed, who had the 
greatest number of followers — the Quarter Days 
said, there could be no question as to that ; 
for they had all the creditors in the world 
dogging their heels. But April Fool gave it in 
favour of the Forty Days before Easter ; because 
the debtors in all cases outnumbered the 
creditors, and they kept lent all the year. 

All this while Valentine's Day kept courting 
pretty May, who sate next him, slipping 
amorous billets-doux under the table, till the 
Dog Days (who are naturally of a warm con- 
stitution) began to be jealous, and to bark and 
rage exceedingly. April Fool, who likes a bit 
of sport above measure, and had some preten- 
sions to the lady besides, as being but a cousin 
once removed, — clapped and halloo'd them on ; 
and as fast as their indignation cooled, those 
mad wags, the Ember Days, were at it with 
their bellows, to blow it into a flame ; and all 
was in a ferment : till old Madam Septuagesima 
(who boasts herself the Mother of the Days) 
wisely diverted the conversation with a tedious 
tale of the lovers which she could reckon when 
she was young ; and of one Master Rogation 



Day in particular, who was for ever putting 
the question to her ; but she kept him at a dis- 
tance, as the chronicle would tell — by which I 
apprehend she meant the Almanack. Then 
she rambled on to the Days that were gone, the 
good old Days, and so to the Days before the Flood 
— which plainly showed her old head to be 
little better than crazed and doited. 

Day being ended, the Days called for their 
cloaks and great-coats, and took their leaves. 
Lord Mayor's Day went off in a Mist, as usual ; 
Shortest Day in a deep black Fog, that wrapt 
the little gentleman all round like a hedge- 
hog. Two Vigils — so watchmen are called in 
heaven — saw Christmas Day safe home — they 
had been used to the business before. Another 
Vigil — a stout, sturdy patrole, called the Eve 
of St. Christopher — seeing Ash Wednesday in a 
condition little better than he should be — e'en 
whipt him over his shoulders, pick-a-back 
fashion, and Old Mortification went floating 
home singing — 

On the bat's back do I fly, 
and a number of old snatches besides, between 
drunk and sober ; but very few Aves or Peni- 
tentiaries (you may believe me) were among 
them. Longest Day set off westward in beau- 
tiful crimson and gold— the rest, some in one 
fashion, some in another ; but Valentine and 
pretty May took their departure together in 
one of the prettiest silvery twilights a Lover's 
Day could wish to set in. 



CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD. 



Dehortations from the useof strong liquors 
have been the favourite topic of sober declaim- 
ers in all ages, and have been received with 
abundance of applause by water-drinking critics. 
But with the patient himself, the man that is to 
be cured, unfortunately their sound has seldom 
prevailed. Yet the evil is acknowledged, the 
remedy simple. Abstain. No force can oblige a 
man to raise the glass to his head against his 
will. 'Tis as easy as not to steal, not to tell lies. 

Alas ! the hand to pilfer, and the tongue to 
bear false witness, have no constitutional ten- 



dency. These are actions indifferent to them- 
At the first instance of the reformed will, 
they can be brought off without a murmur. 
The itching finger is but a figure in speech, 
and the tongue of the liar can with the same 
natural delight give forth useful truths with 
which it has been accustomed to scatter their 
pernicious contraries. But when a man has 

commenced sot 

O pause, thou sturdy moralist, thou person of 
stout nerves and a strong head, whose liver is 
happily untouched, and ere thy gorge riseth at 



58 



ELIA. 



the name which I have written, first learn what 
the thing is ; how much of compassion, how 
much of human allowance, thou mayst virtu- 
ously mingle with thy disapprobation. Trample 
not on the ruins of a man. Exact not, under 
so terrible a penalty as infamy, a resuscita- 
tion from a state of death almost as real as 
that from which Lazarus rose not but by a 
miracle. 

Begin a reformation, and custom will make 
it easy. But what if the beginning be dread- 
ful, the first steps not like climbing a mountain 
but going through fire ? what if the whole 
system must undergo a change violent as that 
which we conceive of the mutation of form in 
some insects ? what if a process comparable to 
flaying alive be to be gone through ? is the 
weakness that sinks under such struggles to 
be confounded with the pertinacity which 
clings to other vices, which have induced no 
constitutional necessity, no engagement of the 
whole victim, body and soul ? 

I have known one in that state, when he has 
tried to abstain but for one evening, — though 
the poisonous potion had long ceased to bring 
back its first enchantments, though he was sure 
it would rather deepen his gloom than brighten 
it,— in the violence of the struggle, and the 
necessity he has felt of getting rid of the 
present sensation at any rate, I have known 
him to scream out, to cry aloud, for the anguish 
and pain of the strife within him. 

Why should I hesitate to declare, that the 
man of whom I speak is myself ? I have no 
puling apology to make to mankind. I see 
them all in one way or another deviating from 
the pure reason. It is to my own nature 
alone I am accountable for the woe that I have 
brought upon it. 

I believe that there are constitutions, robust 
heads and iron insides, whom scarce any ex- 
cesses can hurt ; whom brandy (I have seen 
them drink it like wine), at all events whom 
wine, taken in ever so plentiful measure, can 
do no worse injury to than just to muddle their 
faculties, perhaps never very pellucid. On 
them this discourse is wasted. They would 
but laugh at a weak brother, who trying his 
strength with them, and coming off foiled from 
the contest, would fain persuade them that 
such agonistic exercises are dangerous. It is 
to a very different description of persons I J 



speak. It is to the weak, the nervous ; to 
those who feel the want of some artificial aid 
to raise their spirits in society to what is no 
more than the ordinary pitch of all around 
them without it. This is the secret of our 
drinking. Such must fly the convivial board 
in the first instance, if they do not mean to sell 
themselves for term of life. 

Twelve years ago I had completed my six- 
and-twentieth year. I had lived from the 
period of leaving school to that time pretty 
much in solitude. My companions were chiefly 
books, or at most one or two living ones of my 
own book-loving and sober stamp. I rose 
early, went to bed betimes, and the faculties 
which God had given me, I have reason to 
think, did not rust in me unused. 

About that time I fell in with some com- 
panions of a different order. They were men 
of boisterous spirits, sitters up a-nights, dis- 
putants, drunken ; yet seemed to have some- 
thing noble about them. We dealt about the 
wit, or what passes for it after midnight, jovi- 
ally. Of the quality called fancy I certainly 
possessed a larger share than my companions. 
Encouraged by their applause, I set up for a 
professed joker ! I, who of all men am least 
fitted for such an occupation, having, in addi- 
tion to the greatest difficulty which I expe- 
rience at all times of finding words to express 
my meaning, a natural nervous impediment 
in my speech ! 

Header, if you are gifted with nerves tike 
mine, aspire to any character but that of a wit. 
When you find a tickling relish upon your 
tongue disposing you to that sort of conver- 
sation, especially if you find a preternatural 
flow of ideas setting in upon you at the sight 
of a bottle and fresh glasses, avoid giving way 
to it as you would fly your greatest destruction. 
If you cannot crush the power of fancy, or that 
within you which you mistake for such, divert 
it, give it some other play. Write an essay, 
pen a character or description, — but not as I 
do now, with tears trickling down your cheeks. 

To be an object of compassion to friends, of 
derision to foes ; to be suspected by strangers, 
stared at by fools ; to be esteemed dull when 
you cannot be witty, to be applauded for witty 
when you know that you have been dull ; 
to be called upon for the extemporaneous 
exercise of that faculty which no premeditation 



CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD. 



59 



can give ; to be spurred on to efforts which 
end in contempt ; to be set on to provoke mirth 
which procures the procurer hatred ; to give 
pleasure and be paid with squinting malice ; to 
swallow draughts of life-destroying wine which 
are to be distilled into airy breath to tickle 
vain auditors ; to mortgage miserable morrows 
for nights of madness ; to waste whole seas of 
time upon those who pay it back in little in- 
considerable drops of grudging applause, — are 
the wages of buffoonery and death. 

Time, which has a sure stroke at dissolving 
all connexions which have no solider fastening 
than this liquid cement, more kind to me than 
my own taste or penetration, at length opened 
my eyes to the supposed qualities of my first 
friends. No trace of them is left but in the 
vices which they introduced, and the habits 
they infixed. In them my friends survive still, 
and exercise ample retribution for any sup- 
posed infidelity that I may have been guilty of 
towards them. 

My next more immediate companions were 
and are persons of such intrinsic and felt 
worth, that though accidentally their acquaint- 
ance has proved pernicious to me, I do not 
know that if the thing were to do over again, 
I should have the courage to eschew the mis- 
chief at the price of forfeiting the benefit. I 
came to them reeking from the steams of my 
late over-heated notions of companionship ; 
and the slightest fuel which they unconsciously 
afforded, was sufficient to feed my old fires 
into a propensity. 

They were no driDkers, but, one from pro- 
fessional habits, and another from a custom 
derived from his father, smoked tobacco. The 
devil could not have devised a more subtle trap 
to re-take a backsliding penitent. The transi- 
tion, from gulping down draughts of liquid fire 
to puffing out innocuous blasts of dry smoke, 
was so like cheating him. But he is too hard 
for us when we hope to commute. He beats 
us at barter ; and when we think to set off a 
new failing against an old infirmity, 'tis odds 
but he puts the trick upon us of two for one. 
That (comparatively) white devil of tobacco 
brought with him in the end seven worse than 
himself. 

It were impertinent to carry the reader 
through all the processes by which, from 
smoking at first with malt liquor, I took my 



degrees through thin wines, through stronger 
wine and water, through small punch, to those 
juggling compositions, which, under the name 
of mixed liquors, slur a great deal of brandy 
or other poison under less and less water con- 
tinually, until they come next to none, and so 
to none at all. But it is hateful to disclose the 
secrets of my Tartarus. 

I should repel my readers, from a mere in- 
capacity of believing me, were I to tell them 
what tobacco has been to me, the drudging 
service which I have paid, the slavery which I 
have vowed to it. How, when I have re- 
solved to quit it, a feeling as of ingratitude 
has started up ; how it has put on personal 
claims and made the demands of a friend upon 
me. How the reading of it casually in a book, 
as where Adams takes his whiff in the chim- 
ney-corner of some inn in Joseph Andrews, or 
Piscator in the Complete Angler breaks his 
fast upon a morning pipe in that delicate room 
Piscatoribus Sacrum, has in a moment broken 
down the resistance of weeks. How a pipe 
was ever in my midnight path before me, till 
the vision forced me to realise it, — how then 
its ascending vapours curled, its fragrance 
lulled, and the thousand delicious ministerings 
conversant about it, employing every faculty, 
extracted the sense of pain. How from illum- 
inating it came to darken, from a quick solace 
it turned to a negative relief, thence to a rest- 
lessness and dissatisfaction, thence to a posi- 
tive misery. How, even now, when the whole 
secret stands confessed in all its dreadful 
truth before me, I feel myself linked to it 
beyond the power of revocation. Bone of my 

bone 

Persons not accustomed to examine the 
motives of their actions, to reckon up the 
countless nails that rivet the chains of habit, 
or perhaps being bound by none so obdurate 
as those I have confessed to, may recoil from 
this as from an overcharged picture. But 
what short of such a bondage is it, which in 
spite of protesting friends, a weeping wife, 
and a reprobating world, chains down many a 
poor fellow, of no original indisposition to 
goodness, to his pipe and his pot ? 

I have seen a print after Correggio, in which 
three female figures are ministering to a man 
who sits fast bound at the root of a tree. Sen- 
suality is soothing him, Evil Habit is nailing 



60 



ELIA. 



him to a branch, and Repugnance at the same 
instant of time is applying a snake to his side. 
In his face is feeble delight, the recollection 
of past rather than perception of present plea- 
sures, languid enjoyment of evil with utter 
imbecility to good, a Sybaritic effeminacy, 
a submission to bondage, the springs of the 
will gone down like a broken clock, the sin 
and the suffering co-instantaneous, or the 
latter forerunning the former, remorse preced- 
ing action — all this represented in one point of 
time. — When I saw this, I admired the won- 
derful skill of the painter. But when I went 
away, I wept, because I thought of my own 
condition. 

Of that there is no hope that it should 
ever change. The waters have gone over me. 
But out of the black depths, could I be heard, 
I would cry out to all those who have but set 
a foot in the perilous flood. Could the youth, 
to whom the flavour of his first wine is deli- 
cious as the opening scenes of life or the en- 
tering upon some newly discovered paradise, 
look into my desolation, and be made to un- 
derstand what a dreary thing it is when a man 
shall feel himself going down a precipice with 
open eyes and a passive will, — to see his de- 
struction and have no power to stop it, and 
yet to feel it all the way emanating from him- 
self ; to perceive all goodness emptied out of 
him, and yet not to be able to forget a time 
when it was otherwise ; to bear about the 
piteous spectacle of his own self-ruins : — could 
he see my fevered eye, feverish with last 
night's drinking, and feverishly looking for 
this night's repetition of the folly ; could he 
feel the body of the death out of which I cry 
hourly with feebler and feebler outcry to be 
delivered, — it were enough to make him dash 
the sparkling beverage to the earth in all the 
pride of its mantling temptation ; to make 
him clasp his teeth, 

and not undo 'em 
To suffer wet damnation to run thro' 'em. 

Yea, but (methinks I hear somebody object) 
if sobriety be that fine thing you would have 
us to understand, if the comforts of a cool 
brain are to be preferred to that state of 
heated excitement which you describe and 
deplore, what hinders in your own instance 
that you do not return to those habits from 
which you would induce others never to swerve? 



* When poor M painted his last picture, with a 

pencil in one trembling hand, and a glass of brandy and 
water in the other, his fingers owed the comparative 
steadiness with which they were enabled to go through 
their task in an imperfect manner, to a temporary firmness 
derived from a repetition of practices, the general effect of 
which had shaken both them and him so terribly. 



if the blessing be worth preserving, is it not 
worth recovering ? 

Recovering ! — if a wish could transport me 
back to those days of youth, when a draught 
from the next clear spring could slake any heats 
which summer suns and youthful exercise had 
power to stir up in the blood, how gladly would 
I return to thee, pure element, the drink of chil- 
dren, and of child-like holy hermit ! In my 
dreams lean sometimes fancy thy cool refresh- 
ment purling over my burning tongue. But my 
waking stomach rejects it. That which re- 
freshes innocence only makes me sick and faint. 

But is there no middle way betwixt total 
abstinence and the excess which kills you ? — 
For your sake, reader, and that you may never 
attain to my experience, with pain I must 
utter the dreadful truth, that there is none, none 
that I can find. In my stage of habit (I speak 
not of habits less confirmed — for some of them 
I believe the advice to be most prudential) in 
the stage which I have reached, to stop short 
of that measure which is sufficient to draw on 
torpor and sleep, the benumbing apoplectic 
sleep of the drunkard, is to have taken none at 
all. The pain of the self-denial is all one. And 
what that is, I had rather the reader should J 
believe on my credit, than know from his own 
trial. He will come to know it, whenever he 
shall arrive in that state, in which, paradoxical 
as it may appear, reason shall only visit him 
through intoxication : for it is a fearful truth, that 
the intellectual faculties by repeated acts of 
intemperance may be driven from their or- 
derly sphere of action, their clear daylight 
ministeries, until they shall be brought at last 
to depend, for the faint manifestation of their 
departing energies, upon the returning periods 
of the fatal madness to which they owe their 
devastation. The drinking man is never less 
himself than during his sober intervals. Evil 
is so far his good*. 

Behold me then, in the robust period of life, 
reduced to imbecility and decay. Hear me 
count my gains, and the profits which I have , 
derived from the midnight cup. 



OLD CHINA. 



Gl 



Twelve years ago, I was possessed of a 
healthy frame of mind and body. I was never 
strong, but I think my constitution (for a weak 
one) was as happily exempt from the tendency 
to any malady as it was possible to be. I 
scarce knew what it was to ail anything. Now, 
except when I am losing myself in a sea of 
drink, I am never free from those uneasy sen- 
sations in head and stomach, which are so 
much worse to bear than any definite pains or 
aches. 

At that time I was seldom in bed after six 
in the morning, summer and winter. I awoke 
refreshed, and seldom without some merry 
thoughts in my head, or some piece of a song 
to welcome the new-born day Now, the first 
feeling which besets me, after stretching out 
the hours of recumbence to their last possible 
extent, is a forecast of the wearisome day that 
lies before me, with a secret wish that I could 
have lain on still, or never awaked. 

Life itself, my waking life, has much of the 
confusion, the trouble, and obscure perplexity, 
of an ill dream. In the day time I stumble 
upon dark mountains. 

Business, which, though never very particu- 
larly adapted to my nature, yet as something of 
necessity to be gone through, and therefore best 
undertaken with cheerfulness, I used to enter 
upon with some degree of alacrity, now wearies, 
affrights, perplexes me. I fancy all sorts of 
discouragements, and am ready to give up an 
occupation which gives me bread, from a 
rassing conceit of incapacity. The slightest 
commission given me by a friend, or any small 
duty which I have to perform for myself, as 
giving orders to a tradesman, &c. haunts me 



as a labour impossible to be got through. So 
much the springs of action are broken. 

The same cowardice attends me in all my 
intercourse with mankind. I dare not promise 
that a friend's honour, or his cause, would be 
safe in my keeping, if I were put to the ex- 
pense of any manly resolution in defending it. 
So much the springs of moral action are dead- 
ened within me. 

My favourite occupations in times past, now 
cease to entertain. I can do nothing readily. 
Application for ever so short a time kills me. 
This poor abstract of my condition was penned at 
long intervals, with scarcely any attempt at con- 
nexion of thought, which is now difficult to me. 

The noble passages which formerly delighted 
me in history or poetic fiction, now only draw 
a few weak tears, allied to dotage. My broken 
and dispirited nature seems to sink before any- 
thing great and admirable. 

I perpetually catch myself in tears, for any 
cause, or none. It is inexpressible how much 
this infirmity adds to a sense of shame, and a 
general feeling of deterioration. 

These are some of the instances, concerning 
which I can say with truth, that it was not al- 
ways so with me 

Shall I lift up the veil of my weakness any 
further ? or is this disclosure sufficient ? 

I am a poor nameless egotist, who have no 
vanity to consult by these Confessions. I 
know not whether I shall be laughed at, or 
heard seriously. Such as they are, I commend 
them to the reader's attention, if he find his 
own case any way touched. I have told him 
what I am come to. Let him stop in time. 



OLD CHINA. 



I have an almost feminine partiality for old 
china. "When I go to see any great house, I 
inquire for the china-closet, and next for the 
picture gallery. I cannot defend the order of 
preference, but by saying, that we have all 
some taste or other, of too ancient a date to 
admit of our remembering distinctly that it 
was an acquired one. I can call to mind the 
first play, and the first exhibition, that I was 



taken to ; but I am not conscious of a time 
when china jars and saucers were introduced 
into my imagination. 

I had no repugnance then — why should I 
now have? — to those little, lawless, azure- 
tinctured grotesques, that under the notion of 
men and women, float about, uncircumscribed 
by any element, in that world before perspec- 
tive — a china tea-cup. 



62 



ELIA. 



I like to see my old friends — whom distance 
cannot diminish — figuring up in the air (so 
they appear to our optics), yet on terra firma 
still — for so we must in courtesy interpret that 
speck of deeper blue, — which the decorous 
artist, to prevent absurdity, had made to 
spring up beneath their sandals. 

I love the men with women's faces, and the 
women, if possible, with still more womanish 
expressions. 

Here is a young and courtly Mandarin, 
handing tea to a lady from a salver — two miles 
off. See how distance seems to set off respect! 
And here the same lady, or another — for like- 
ness is identity on tea-cups — is stepping into a 
little fairy boat, moored on the hither side of this 
calm garden river, with a dainty mincing foot, 
which in a right angle of incidence (as angles 
go in our world) must infallibly land her in 
the midst of a flowery mead — a furloDg off on 
the other side of the same strange stream ! 

Farther on — if far or near can be predicated 
of their world — see horses, trees, pagodas, 
dancing the hays. 

Here — a cow and rabbit couchant, and co- 
extensive — so objects show, seen through the 
lucid atmosphere of fine Cathay. 

I was pointing out to my cousin last evening, 
over our Hyson, (which we are old-fashioned 
enough to drink unmixed still of an afternoon) 
some of these speciosa miracula upon a set of 
extraordinary old blue china (a recent pur- 
chase) which we were now for the first time 
using; and could not help remarking, how 
favourable circumstances had been to us of late 
years, that we could afford to please the eye 
sometimes with trifles of this sort — when a 
passing sentiment seemed to overshade the 
brows of my companion. I am quick at de- 
tecting these summer clouds in Bridget. 

u I wish the good old times would come 
again," she said, " when we were not quite so 
rich. I do not mean, that I want to be poor ; 
but there was a middle state"— so she was 
pleased to ramble on, — " in which I am sure 
we were a great deal happier. A purchase is 
but a purchase, now that you have money 
enough and to spare. Formerly it used to be 
a triumph. When we coveted a cheap luxury 
(and, O ! how much ado I had to get you to 
consent in those times !) — we were used to 
have a debate two or three days before, and to 



weigh the for and against, and think what we 
might spare it out of, and what saving we 
could hit upon, that should be an equivalent. 
A thing was worth buying then, when we 
felt the money that we paid for it. 

" Do you remember the brown suit, which 
you made to hang upon you, till all your friends 
cried shame upon you, it grew so thread-bare 
— and all because of that folio Beaumont and 
Fletcher, which you dragged home late at night 
from Barker's in Covent-garden ? Do you re- 
member how we eyed it for weeks before we 
could make up our minds to the purchase, and 
had not come to a determination till it was 
near ten o'clock of the Saturday night, 
when you set off from Islington, fearing you 
should be too late — and when the old book- 
seller with some grumbling opened his shop, 
and by the twinkling taper (for he was setting 
bedwards) lighted out the relic from his dusty 
treasures — and when you lugged it home, 
wishing it were twice as cumbersome— and 
when you presented it to me — and when we 
were exploring the perfectness of it {collating 
you called it) — and while I was repairing some 
of the loose leaves with paste, which your im- 
patience would not suffer to be left till day- 
break — was there no pleasure in being a poor 
man ? or can those neat black clothes which 
you wear now, and are so careful to keep 
brushed, since we have become rich and finical, 
give you half the honest vanity, with which you 
flaunted it about in that overworn suit— your 
old corbeau — for four or five weeks longer than 
you should have done, to pacify your con- 
science for the mighty sum of fifteen — or six- 
teen shillings was it ? — a great affair we thought 
it then — which you had lavished on the old 
folio. Now you can afford to buy any book 
that pleases you, but I do not see that you ever 
bring me home any nice old purchases now. 

" When you came home with twenty apolo- 
gies for laying out a less number of shillings 
upon that print after Lionardo, which we 
christened the 'Lady Blaneh ;' when you looked 
at the purchase, and thought of the money — 
and thought of the money, and looked again at 
the picture — was there no pleasure in being a 
poor man ? Now, you have nothing to do but 
to walk into Colnaghi's, and buy a wilderness 
of Lionardos. Yet do you ? 

<f Then, do you remember our pleasant walks 



OLD CHINA. 



G3 



to Enfield, and Potter's bar, and Waltham, 
when we had a holyday — holy days, and all 
other fun, are gone now we are rich — and the 
little hand-basket in which I used to deposit 
our day's fare of savory cold lamb and salad — 
and how you would pry about at noon-tide for 
some decent house, where we might go in and 
produce our store — only paying for the ale that 
you must call for — and speculate upon the looks 
of the landlady, and whether she was likely to 
allow us a table-cloth — and wish for such 
another honest hostess, as Izaak Walton 
has described many a one on the pleasant 
banks of the Lea, when he went a fishing — and 
sometimes they would prove obliging enough, 
and sometimes they would look grudgingly 
upon us — but we had cheerful looks still for 
one another, and would eat our plain food 
savorily, scarcely grudging Piscator his Trout 
Hall? Now — when we go out a day's pleasuring, 
which is seldom moreover, we ride part of the 
way — and go into a fine inn, and order the best 
of dinners, never debating the expense — which 
after all, never has half the relish of those chance 
country snaps, when we were at the mercy 
of uncertain usage, and a precarious welcome. 
"You are too proud to see a play anywhere now 
but in the pit. Do you remember where it was we 
used to sit, when we saw the Battle of Hexham, 

: and the Surrender of Calais, and Bannister and 
Mrs. Bland in the Children in the "Wood — 
when we squeezed out our shillings a-pieceto sit 
three or four times in a season in the one-shil- 
ling gallery — where you felt all the time that 

! you ought not to have brought me— and more 
strongly I felt obligation to you for having 
brought me — and the pleasure was the better 
for a little shame — and when the curtain drew 
up, what cared we for our place in the house, 
or what mattered it where we were sitting, 
when our thoughts were with Rosalind in 
Arden, or with Viola at the Court of Illyria ? 
You used to say, that the Gallery was the best 
place of all for enjoying a play socially — that 

1 the relish of such exhibitions must be in pro- 
portion to the infrequency of going — that the 
company we met there, not being in general 

i readers of plays, were obliged to attend the 
more, and did attend, to what was going on, on 

! the stage — because a word lost would have 
been a chasm, which it was impossible for them 
to fill up. With such reflections we consoled 



our pride then — and I appeal to you, whether, 
as a woman, I met generally with less atten- 
tion and accommodation, than I have done since 
in more expensive situations in the house ? 
The getting in indeed, and the crowding up 
those inconvenient staircases, was bad enough, 
— but there was still a law of civility to woman 
recognized to quite as great an extent as we 
ever found in the other passages — and how a 
little difficulty overcome heightened the snug 
seat and the play, afterwards ! Now we can 
only pay our money and walk in. You can- 
not see, you say, in the galleries now. I am 
sure we saw, and heard too, well enough then 
— but sight, and all, I think, is gone with our 
poverty. 

" There was pleasure in eating strawberries, 
before they became quite common — in the first 
dish of peas, while they were yet dear-—- to 
have them for a nice supper, a treat. What 
treat can we have now ? If we were to treat 
ourselves now — that is to have dainties a little 
above our means,it would be selfish and wicked. 
It is the very little more that we allow our- 
selves beyond what the actual poor can get at, 
that makes what I call a treat — when two 
people living together, as we have done, now j 
and then indulge themselves in a cheap luxury, 
which both like ; while each apologises, and is 
willing to take both halves of the blame to his 
single share. I see no harm in people making 
much of themselves, in that sense of the word. ! 
It may give them a hint how to make much of 
others. But now — what I mean by the word — 
we never do make much of ourselves. None 
but the poor can do it. I do not mean the 
veriest poor of all, but persons as we were, 
just above poverty. 

" I know what you were going to say, that it 
is mighty pleasant at the end of the year to 
make all meet, — and much ado we used to have 
every Thirty-first Night of December to account 
for our exceedings — many a long face did you 
make over your puzzled accounts, and in con- 
triving to make it out how we had spent so 
much — or that we had not spent so much — or 
that it was impossible we should spend so 
much next year — and still we found our slender 
capital decreasing — but then, — betwixt ways, 
and projects, and compromises of one sort or 
another, and talk of curtailing this charge, and 
doing without that for the future— and the hope 



64 



ELIA. 



that youth brings, and laughing spirits (in 
which you were never poor till now), we 
pocketed up our loss, and in conclusion, with 
" lusty brimmers " (as you used to quote it 
out of hearty cheerful Mr. Cotton, as you called 
him), we used to welcome in the " coming 
guest." Now we have no reckoning at all at 
the end of the old year — no flattering promises 
about the new year doing better for us." 

Bridget is so sparing of her speech on most 
occasions, that when she gets into a rhetorical 
vein, I am careful how I interrupt it. I could 
not help, however, smiling at the phantom of 
wealth which her dear imagination had con- 
jured up out of a clear income of poor 

hundred pounds a year. " It is true we were 
happier when we were poorer, but we were 
also younger, my cousin. I am afraid we must 
put up with the excess, for if we were to shake 
the superflux into the sea, we should not much 
mend ourselves. That we had much to struggle 
with, as we grew up together, we have reason 
to be most thankful. It strengthened, and 
knit our compact closer. We could never have 
been what we have been to each other, if we 
had always had the sufficiency which you now 
complain of. The resisting power — those na- 
tural dilations of the youthful spirit, which cir- 
cumstances cannot straiten — with us are long 
since passed away. Competence to age is 
supplementary youth, a sorry supplement in- 



deed, but I fear the best that is to be had. 
We must ride where we formerly walked: live 
better and lie softer — and shall be wise to do 
so — than we had means to do in those good old 
days you speak of. Yet could those days re- 
turn — could you and I once more walk our 
thirty miles a-day — could Bannister and Mrs. 
Bland again be young, and you and I be young 
to see them — could the good old one-shilling 
gallery days return — they are dreams, my 
cousin, now — but could you and I at this mo- 
ment, instead of this quiet argument, by our 
well-carpeted fire-side : sitting on this luxurious 
sofa — be once more struggling up those incon- 
venient stair-cases, pushed about,and squeezed, 
and elbowed by the poorest rabble of poor 
gallery scramblers — could I once more hear 
those anxious shrieks of yours — and the de- 
licious Thank God, we are safe, which always 
followed when the topmost stair, conquered, 
let in the first light of the whole cheerful the- 
atre down beneath us — I know not the fathom 
line that ever touched a descent so deep as I 
would be willing to bury more wealth in than 
Croesus had, or the great Jew R is sup- 
posed to have, to purchase it. And now do 
just look at that merry little Chinese waiter 
holding an umbrella, big enough for a bed-tester, 
over the head of that pretty insipid half 
Madona-ish chit of a lady in that very blue sum- 
mer house." 



THE CHILD ANGEL : A DREAM. 



I chanced upon the prettiest, oddest, fan- 
tastical thing of a dream the other night, that 
you shall hear of. I had been reading the 
" Loves of the Angels," and went to bed with 
my head full of speculations, suggested by that 
extraordinary legend. It had given birth to 
innumerable conjectures ; and, I remember 
the last waking thought, which I gave expres- 
sion to on my pillow, was a sort of wonder 
" what could come of it." 

I was suddenly transported, how or whither 
I could scarcely make out — but to some celes- 
tial region. It was not the real heavens 
neither — not the downright Bible heaven — but 



a kind of fairy-land heaven, about which a poor 
human fancy may have leave to sport and air 
itself, I will hope, without presumption. 

Methought — what wild things dreams are \ 
— I was present — at what would you imagine ? 
— at an angel's gossiping. 

Whence it came, or how it came, or who 
bid it eome, or whether it came purely of its 
own head, neither you nor I know — but there 
lay, sure enough, wrapt in its little cloudy 
swaddling-bands — a Child Angel. 

Sun-threads — filmy beams — ranthrougn the 
celestial napery of what seemed its princely 
cradle. All the winged orders hovered round, 



THE CHILD-ANGEL. 



65 



watching when the new-born should open its 
yet closed eyes ; which, when it did, first one, 
and then the other — with a solicitude and ap- 
prehension, yet not such as, stained with fear, 
dim the expanding eyelids of mortal infants, 
but as if to explore its path in those its un- 
hereditary palaces — what an inextinguishable 
titter that time spared not celestial visages ! 
Nor wanted there to my seeming — O the in- 
explicable simpleness of dreams ! — bowls of 
that cheering nectar, 

— which mortals caudle call below. 
Nor were wanting faces of female ministrants, 
— stricken in years, as it might seem, — so dex- 
terous were those heavenly attendants to 
counterfeit kindly similitudes of earth, to 
greet, with terrestrial child-rites the young 
present, which earth had made to heaven. 

Then were celestial harpings heard, not in 
full symphony as those by which the spheres 
are tutored ; but, as loudest instruments on 
earth speak oftentimes muffled ; so to accom- 
modate their sound the better to the weak 
ears of the imperfect-born. And, with the 
noise of those subdued soundings, the Angelet 
sprang forth, fluttering its rudiments of pinions 
— but forthwith flagged and was recovered into 
the arms of those full-winged angels. And a 
wonder it was to see how, as years went round 
in heaven — a year in dreams is as a day— con- 
tinually its white shoulders put forth buds of 
wings, but wanting the perfect angelic nutri- 
ment, anon was shorn of its aspiring, and fell 
fluttering — still caught by angel hands — for 
ever to put forth shoots, and to fall fluttering, 
because its birth was not of the unmixed 
vigour of heaven. 

And a name was given to the Babe Angel, 
and it was to be called Ge- Urania, because its 
production was of earth and heaven. 

And it could not taste of death, by reason of 
its adoption into immortal palaces : but it was 
to know weakness, and reliance, and the 
shadow of human imbecility ; and it went with 
a lame gait ; but in its goings it exceeded all 
mortal children in grace and swiftness. Then 
pity first sprang up in angelic bosoms ; and 
yearnings (like the human) touched them at 
the sight of the immortal lame one. 

And with pain did then first those Intuitive 
Essences, with pain and strife, to their natures 

(not grief), put back their bright intelligenceSj 

[second series.] 



and reduce their ethereal minds, schooling 
them to degrees and slower processes, so to 
adapt their lessons to the gradual illumination 
(as must needs be) of the half-earth-born ; and 
what intuitive notices they could not repel (by 
reason that their nature is, to know all things 
at once) the half-heavenly novice, by the 
better part of its nature, aspired to receive 
into its understanding ; so that Humility and 
Aspiration went on even-paced in the instruc- 
tion of the glorious Amphibium. 

But, by reason that Mature Humanity is 
too gross to breathe the air of that super-sub- 
tile region, its portion was, and is, to be a child 
for ever. 

And because the human part of it might 
not press into the heart and inwards of the 
palace of its adoption, those full-natured angels 
tended it by turns in the purlieus of the palace, 
where were shady groves and rivulets, like 
this green earth from which it came : so Love, 
with Voluntary Humility, waited upon the 
entertainment of the new-adopted. 

And myriads of years rolled round (in dreams 
Time is nothing), and still it kept, and is to 
keep, perpetual childhood, and is the Tutelar 
Genius of Childhood upon earth, and still goes 
lame and lovely. 

By the banks of the river Pison is seen, 
lone sitting by the grave of the terrestrial Adah, 
whom the angel Nadir loved, a Child ; but not 
the same which I saw in heaven. A mourn- 
ful hue overcasts its lineaments ; nevertheless, 
a correspondency is between the child by the 
grave, and that celestial orphan, whom I saw 
above ; and the dimness of the grief upon the 
heavenly, is a shadow or emblem of that which 
stains the beauty of the terrestrial. And this 
correspondency is not to be understood but by 
dreams. 

And in the archives of heaven I had grace 
to read, how that once the angel Nadir, being 
exiled from his place for mortal passion, up- 
springing on the wings of parental love (such 
power had parental love for a moment to sus- 
pend the else-irrevocable law) appeared for a 
brief instant in his station, and, depositing a 
wondrous Birth, straightway disappeared, and 
the palaces knew him no more. And this 
charge was the self-same Babe, who goeth 
lame and lovely — but Adah sleepeth by the 
river Pison. 



66 



ELIA. 



POPULAR FALLACIES. 



I. 

THAT A BULLY IS ALWAYS A COWARD. 
This axiom contains a principle of compen- 
sation, which disposes us to admit the truth of 
it. But there is no safe trusting to dictiona- 
ries and definitions. "We should more willingly 
fall in with this popular language, if we did 
not find brutality sometimes awkwardly coupled 
with valour in the same vocabulary. The comic 
writers, with their poetical justice, have con- 
tributed not a little to mislead us upon this 
point. To see a hectoring fellow exposed and 
beaten upon the stage, has something in it 
wonderfully diverting. Some people's share 
of animal spirits is notoriously low and defec- 
tive. It has not strength to raise a vapour, or 
furnish out the wind of a tolerable bluster. 
These love to be told that huffing is no part of 
valour. The truest courage with them is that 
which is the least noisy and obtrusive. But 
confront one of these silent heroes with the 
swaggerer of real life, and his confidence in 
the theory quickly vanishes. Pretensions do 
not uniformly bespeak non-performance. A 
modest inoffensive dejDortment does not neces- 
sarily imply valour ; neither does the absence 
of it justify us in denying that quality. Hick- 
man wanted modesty — we do not mean him of 
Clarissa — but who ever doubted his courage ? 
Even the poets — upon whom this equitable dis- 
tribution of qualities should be most binding — 
have thought it agreeable to nature to depart 
from the rule upon occasion. Harapha, in the 
" Agonistes," is indeed a bully upon the received 
notions. Milton has made him at once a blus- 
terer, a giant, and a dastard. But Almanzor, 
in Dryden, talks of driving armies singly before 
him — and does it. Tom Brown had a shrewder 
insight into this kind of character than either 
of his predecessors. He divides the palm more 
equably, and allows his hero a sort of dimidiate 
pre-eminence : — " Bully Dawson kicked by 



half the town, and half the town kicked by 
Bully Dawson." This was true distributive 
justice. 

II. 

THAT ILL-GOTTEN GAIN NEVER PROSPERS. 

The weakest part of mankind have this 
saying commonest in their mouth. It is the 
trite consolation administered to the easy dupe, 
when he has been tricked out of his money or 
estate, that the acquisition of it will do the 
owner no good. But the rogues of this world 
— the prudenter part of them, at least — know 
better ; and if the observation had been as 
true as it is old, would not have failed by this 
time to have discovered it. They have pretty 
sharp distinctions of the fluctuating and the 
permanent. " Lightly come, lightly go," is a 
proverb, which they can very well afford to 
leave, when they leave little else, to the losers. 
They do not always find manors, got by 
rapine or chicanery, insensibly to melt away, 
as the poets will have it ; or that all gold glides, 
like thawing snow, from the thief's hand that 
grasps it. Church land, alienated to lay uses, 
was formerly denounced to have this slippery 
quality. But some portions of it somehow 
always stuck so fast, that the denunciators have 
been fain to postpone the prophecy of refund- 
ment to a late posterity. 



III. 

THAT A MAN MUST NOT LAUGH AT HIS OWN 
JEST. 
The severest exaction surely ever invented 
upon the self-denial of poor human nature ! 
This is to expect a gentleman to give a treat 
without partaking of it ; to sit esurient at his 
own table, and commend the flavour of his 
venison upon the absurd strength of his never 



POPULAR FALLACIES. 



67 



touching it himself. On the contrary, we love 
to see a wag taste his own joke to his party ; 
to watch a quirk or a merry conceit flickering 
upon the lips some seconds before the tongue 
is delivered of it. If it be good, fresh, and racy 

begotten of the occasion ; if he that utters 

it never thought it before, he is naturally 
the first to be tickled with it ; and any sup- 
pression of such complacence we hold to be 
churlish and insulting. What does it seem to 
imply, but that your company is weak or foolish 
enough to be moved by an image or a fancy, 
that shall stir you not at all, or but faintly ? 
This is exactly the humour of the fine gentle- 
man in Mandeville, who, while he dazzles his 
guests with the display of some costly toy, 
affects himself to " see nothing considerable 
in it." 



IV. 

THAT SUCH A ONE SHOWS HIS BREEDING.— 
THAT IT IS EASY TO PERCEIVE HE IS NO 
GENTLEMAN. 

A speech from the poorest sort of people, 
which always indicates that the party vitupe- 
rated is a gentleman. The very fact which 
they deny, is that which galls and exasperates 
them to use this language. The forbearance 
with which it is usually received, is a proof 
what interpretation the bystander sets upon it. 
Of a kin to this, and still less politic, are the 
phrases with which, in their street rhetoric, 
they ply one another more grossly ; — He is a 

poor creature. — He has not a rag to cover fyc. ; 

though this last, we confess, is more frequently 
applied by females to females. They do not 
perceive that the satire glances upon them- 
selves. A poor man, of all things in the world, 
should not upbraid an antagonist with poverty. 
Are there no other topics — as, to tell him his 

father was hanged — his sister, &c. , without 

exposing a secret, which should be kept snug 
between them ; and doing an affront to the 
order to which they have the honour equally 
to belong ? All this while they do not see how 
the wealthier man stands by and laughs in his 
sleeve at both. 



V. 

THAT THE POOR COPY THE VICES OP THE 
RICH. 

A smooth text to the letter ; and, preached 
from the pulpit, is sure of a docile audience 
from the pews lined with satin. It is twice 
sitting upon velvet to a foolish squire to be told, 
that he — and not perverse nature, as the homilies 
would make us imagine, is the true cause of all 
the irregularities in his parish. This is striking 
at the root of free-will indeed, and denying the 
originality of sin in any sense. But men are 
not such implicit sheep as this comes to. If 
the abstinence from evil on the part of tne 
upper classes is to derive itself from no higher 
principle than the apprehension of setting ill 
patterns to the lower, we beg leave to discharge 
them from all squeamishness on that score : 
they may even take their fill of pleasures, 
where they can find them. The Genius of 
Poverty, hampered and straitened as it is, is 
not so barren of invention, but it can trade 
upon the staple of its own vice, without draw- 
ing upon their capital. The poor are not 
quite such servile imitators as they take them 
for. Some of them are very clever artists in 
their way. Here and there we find an original. 
Who taught the poor to steal, to pilfer I They 
did not go to the great for schoolmasters in 
these faculties surely. It is well if in some 
vices they allow us to be — no copyists. In no 
other sense is it true that the poor copy them, 
than as servants may be said to take after their 
masters and mistresses, when they succeed to 
their reversionary cold meats. If the master, 
from indisposition or some other cause, neglect 
his food, the servant dines notwithstanding. 

" 0, but (some will say) the force of example 
is great." We knew a lady who was so scru- 
pulous on this head, that she would put up 
with the calls of the most impertinent visiter, 
rather than let her servant say she was not at 
home, for fear of teaching her maid to tell an 
untruth ; and this in the very face of the fact, 
which she knew well enough, that the wench 
was one of the greatest liars upon the earth 
without teaching ; so much so, that her mistress 
possibly never heard two words of consecutive 
truth from her in her life. But nature must 
go for nothing : example must be everything. 



66 



ELIA. 



This liar in grain, who never opened her mouth 
without a lie, must be guarded against a re- 
mote inference, which she (pretty casuist!) 
might possibly draw from a form of words — 
literally false, but essentially deceiving no one 
— that under some circumstances a fib might 
not be so exceedingly sinful — a fiction, too, not 
at all in her own way, or one that she could be 
suspected of adopting, for few servant- wenches 
care to be denied to visiters. 

This word example reminds us of another fine 
word which is in use upon these occasions — 
encouragement. " People in our sphere must not 
be thought to give encouragement to such pro- 
ceedings." To such a frantic height is this 
principle capable of being carried, that we have 
known individuals who have thought it within 
the scope of their influence to sanction despair, 
and give eclat to — suicide. A domestic in the 
family of a county member lately deceased, 
from love, or some unknown cause, cut his 
throat, but not successfully. The poor fellow 
was otherwise much loved and respected ; and 
great interest was used in his behalf, upon his 
recovery, that he might be permitted to re- 
tain his place ; his word being first pledged, 
not without some substantial sponsors to pro- 
mise for him, that the like should never happen 
again. His master was inclinable to keep him, 
but his mistress thought otherwise ; and John 
in the end was dismissed, her ladyship declaring 
that she " could not think of encouraging any 
such doings in the county." 



VI. 

THAT ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST. 
Not a man, woman, or child, in ten miles 
round Guildhall, who really believes this saying. 
The inventor of it did not believe it himself. 
It was made in revenge by somebody, who was 
disappointed of a regale. It is a vile cold-scrag- 
of-mutton sophism ; a lie palmed upon the 
palate, which knows better things. If nothing 
else could be said for a feast, this is sufficient, 
that from the superflux there is usually some- 
thing left for the next day. Morally interpreted, 
it belongs to a class of proverbs which have a 
tendency to make us undervalue money. Of 
this cast are those notable observations, that 
money is not health ; riches cannot purchase 



everything : the metaphor which makes gold 
to be mere muck, with the morality which 
traces fine clothing to the sheep's back, and 
denounces pearl as the unhandsome excretion 
of an oyster. Hence, too, the phrase which 
imputes dirt to acres— a sophistry so barefaced, 
that even the literal sense of it is true only in 
a wet season. This, and abundance of similar 
sage saws assuming to inculcate content, we 
verily believe to have been the invention of 
some cunning borrower, who had designs upon 
the purse of his wealthier neighbour, which 
he could only hope to carry by force of these 
verbal jugglings. Translate any one of these 
sayings out of the artful metonymy which en- 
velops it, and the trick is apparent. Goodly 
legs and shoulders of mutton, exhilarating cor- 
dials, books, pictures, the opportunities of seeing 
foreign countries, independence, heart's ease, 
a man's own time to himself, are not muck — 
however we may be pleased to scandalize with 
that appellation the faithful metal that pro- 
vides them for us. 



VII. 

OF TWO DISPUTANTS THE WARMEST IS 
GENERALLY IN THE WRONG. 

Our experience would lead us to quite an 
opposite conclusion. Temper, indeed, is no 
test of truth ; but warmth and earnestness are 
a proof at least of a man's own conviction of 
the rectitude of that which he maintains. 
Coolness is as often the result of an unprin- 
cipled indifference to truth or falsehood, as of 
a sober confidence in a man's own side in a 
dispute. Nothing is more insulting sometimes 
than the appearance of this philosophic temper. 
There is little Titubus, the stammering law- 
stationer in Lincoln's Inn — we have seldom 
known this shrewd little fellow engaged in an 
argument where we were not convinced he 
had the best of it, if his tongue would but 
fairly have seconded him. When he has been 
spluttering excellent broken sense for an hour 
together, writhing and labouring tobe delivered 
of the point of dispute — the very gist of the 
controversy knocking at his teeth, which like 
some obstinate iron-grating still obstructed its 
deliverance — his puny frame convulsed, and 
face reddening all over at an unfairness in the 



POPULAR FALLACIES. 



GO 



logic which he wanted articulation to expose, 
it has moved our gall to see a smooth portly 
fellow of an adversary, that cared not a button 
for the merits of the question, by merely laying 
his hand upon the head of the stationer, and 
desiring him to be calm (your tall disputants 
have always the advantage), with a provoking 
sneer carry the argument clean from him in 
the opinion of all the by-standers, who have 
gone away clearly convinced that Titubus must 
have been in the wrong, because he was in a 

passion ; and that Mr. , meaning his 

opponent, is one of the fairest and at the same 
time one of the most dispassionate arguers 
breathing. 



VIII. 

THAT VERBAL ALLUSIONS ARE NOT WIT, 

BECAUSE THEY WILL NOT BEAR A 

TRANSLATION. 

The same might be said of the wittiest local 
allusions. A custom is sometimes as difficult 
to explain to a foreigner as a pun. What 
would become of a great part of the wit of the 
last age, if it were tried by this test ? How 
would certain topics, as aldermanity, cuckoldry, 
have sounded to a Terentian auditory, though 
Terence himself had been alive to translate 
them ? Senator urbanus with Curruca to boot for 
a synonyme, would but faintly have done the 
business. "Words, involving notions, are hard 
enough to render ; it is too much to expect us 
to translate a sound, and give an elegant ver- 
sion to a jingle. The Virgilian harmony is not 
translatable, but by substituting harmonious 
sounds in another language for it. To Latinise 
a pun, we must seek a pun in Latin, that will 
answer to it ; as, to give an idea of the double 
endings in Hudibras, we must have recourse 
to a similar practice in the old monkish doggrel. 
Dennis, the fiercest oppugner of puns in ancient 
or modern times, professes himself highly 
tickled with the " a stick," chiming to "ecclesi- 
astic." Yet what is this but a species of pun, 
a verbal consonance ? 



IX. 

THAT THE WORST PUNS ARE THE BEST. 

If by worst be only meant the most far- 
fetched and startling, we agree to it. A pun 
is not bound by the laws which limit nicer wit« 
It is a pistol let off at the ear ; not a feather to 
tickle the intellect. It is an antic which does 
not stand upon manners, but comes bounding 
into the presence, and does not show the less 
comic for being dragged in sometimes by the 
head and shoulders. What though it limp a 
little, or prove defective in one leg?— all the 
better. A pun may easily be too curious and 
artificial. Who has not at one time or other 
been at a party of professors (himself perhaps 
an old offender in that line, where, after ringing 
a round of the most ingenious conceits, every 
man contributing his shot, and some there the 
most expert shooters of the day ; after making 
a poor word run the gauntlet till it is ready to 
drop ; after hunting and winding it through all 
the possible ambages of similar sounds : after 
squeezing, and hauling, and tugging at it, till 
the very milk of it will not yield a drop 
further, — suddenly some obscure, unthought- 
of fellow in a corner, who was never 'prentice 
to the trade, whom the company for very pity 
passed over, as we do by a known poor man 
when a money-subscription is going round, no 
one calling upon him for his quota — has all at 
once come out with something so whimsical, 
yet so pertinent ; so brazen in its pretensions, 
yet so impossible to be denied ; so exquisitely 
good, and so deplorably bad, at the same time, 
— that it has proved a Robin Hood's shot ; 
anything ulterior to that is despaired of ; and 
the party breaks up, unanimously voting it to 
be the very worst (that is, best) pun of the 
evening. This species of wit is the better for 
not being perfect in all its parts. What it 
gains in completeness, it loses in naturalness. 
The more exactly it satisfies the critical, the 
less hold it has upon some other faculties. 
The puns which are most entertaining are 
those which will least bear an analysis. Of 
this kind is the following, recorded with a sort 
of stigma, in one of Swift's Miscellanies. 

An Oxford scholar, meeting a porter who 
was carrying a hare through the streets, 
accosts him with this extraordinary question : 



70 



ELIA. 



* Prithee, friend, is that thy own hare, or a 
wig ?" 

There is no excusing this, and no resisting 
it. A man might blur ten sides of paper in 
attempting a defence of it against a critic who 
should be laughter-proof. The quibble in itself 
is not considerable. It is only a new turn 
given by a little false pronunciation, to a very 
common, though not very courteous inquiry. 
Put by one gentleman to another at a dinner- 
party, it would have been vapid ; to the 
mistress of the house, it would have shown 
much less wit than rudeness. We must take 
in the totality of time, place, and person ; the 
pert look of the inquiring scholar, the despond- 
ing looks of the puzzled porter : the one 
stopping at leisure, the other hurrying on with 
his burthen ; the innocent though rather 
abrupt tendency of the first member of the 
question, with the utter and inextricable irrele- 
vancy of the second ; the place — a public street, 
not favourable to frivolous investigations ; the 
affrontive quality of the primitive inquiry (the 
common question) invidiously transferred to 
the derivative (the new turn given to it) in the 
implied satire ; namely, that few of that tribe 
are expected to eat of the good things which 
they carry, they being in most countries con- 
sidered rather as the temporary trustees than 
owners of such dainties, — which the fellow was 
beginning to understand ; but then the wig 
again comes in, and he can make nothing of 
it ; all put together constitute a picture : 
Hogarth could have made it intelligible on 
canvas. 

Yet nine out of ten critics will pronounce 
this a very bad pun, because of the defective- 
ness in the concluding member, which is its 
very beauty, and constitutes the surprise. The 
same persons shall cry up for admirable the 
cold quibble from Virgil about the broken 
Cremona* ; because it is made out in all its 
parts, and leaves nothing to the imagination. 
We venture to call it cold ; because, of thousands 
who have admired it, it would be difficult to 
find one who has heartily chuckled at it. As 
appealing to the judgment merely (setting the 
risible faculty aside), we must pronounce it a 
monument of curious felicity. But as some 
stories are said to be too good to be true, it 
may with equal truth be asserted of this bi- 
* Swift. 



verbal allusion, that it is too good to be natural. 
One cannot help suspecting that the incident 
was invented to fit the line. It would have 
been better had it been less perfect. Like 
some Virgilian hemistichs, it has suffered by 
filling up. The nimium Vicina was enough in 
conscience ; the Cremonce afterwards loads it. 
It is in fact a double pun ; and we have always 
observed that a superfcetation in this sort of 
wit is dangerous. When a man has said a 
good thing, it is seldom politic to follow it up. 
We do not care to be cheated a second time ; 
or, perhaps, the mind of man (with reverence 
be it spoken) is not capacious enough to lodge 
two puns at a time. The impression, to be 
forcible, must be simultaneous and undivided. 



THAT HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES. 

Those who use this proverb can never have 
seen Mrs. Conrady 

The soul, if we may believe Plotinus, is a ray 
from the celestial beauty. As she partakes 
more or less of this heavenly light, she informs, 
with corresponding characters, the fleshly 
tenement which she chooses, and frames to 
herself a suitable mansion. 

All which only proves that the soul of Mrs. 
Conrady, in her pre-existent state, was no great 
judge of architecture. 

To the same effect, in a Hymn in honour of 
Beauty, divine Spenser platonising, sings : — 

" Every spirit as it is more pure, 

And hath in it the more of heavenly light, 
So it the fairer body doth procure 
To habit in, and it more fairly dight 
With cheerful grace and amiable sight, 
For of the soul the body form doth take : 
For soul is form and doth the body make." 

But Spenser it is clear never saw Mrs. Conrady. 
These poets, we find, are no safe guides in 
philosophy ; for here, in his very next stanza 
but one, is a saving clause, which throws us 
all out again, and leaves us as much to seek as 
ever : — 

" Yet oft it falls, that many a gentle mind 
Dwells in deformed tabernacle drown'd, 
Either by chance, against the course of kind, 
Or through unaptness in the substance found, 
Which it assumed of some stubborn ground, 
That will not yield unto her form's direction, 
But is performed with some foul imperfection. 



POPULAR FALLACIES. 



71 



Prom which it would follow, that Spenser had 
seen somebody like Mrs. Conrady. 

The spirit of this good lady — her previous 
anima — must have stumbled upon one of these 
untoward tabernacles which he speaks of. A 
more rebellious commodity of clay for a ground, 
as the poet calls it, no gentle mind— and sure 
hers is one of the gentlest — ever had to deal 
with. 

Pondering upon her inexplicable visage — in- 
explicable, we mean, but by this modification 
of the theory — we have come to a conclusion 
that, if one must be plain, it is better to be 
plain all over, than amidst a tolerable residue 
of features, to hang out one that shall be ex- 
ceptionable. No one can say of Mrs. Conrady' s 
countenance that it would be better if she had 
but a nose. It is impossible to pull her to 
pieces in this manner. "We have seen the most 
malicious beauties of her own sex baffled in 
the attempt at a selection. The tout-ensemble 
defies particularising. It is too complete — too 
consistent, as we may say — to admit of these 
invidious reservations. It is not as if some 
Apelles had picked out here a lip — and there 
a chin — out of the collected ugliness of Greece, 
to frame a model by. It is a symmetrical 
whole. We challenge the minutest con- 
noisseur to cavil at any part or parcel of the 
countenance in question ; to say that this, or 
that, is improperly placed. "We are convinced 
that true ugliness, no less than is affirmed of 
true beauty, is the result of harmony. Like 
that too it reigns without a competitor. No 
one ever saw Mrs. Conrady, without pro- 
nouncing her to be the plainest woman that he 
ever met with in the course of his life. The 
first time that you are indulged with a sight of 
her face, is an era in your existence ever after. 
You are glad to have seen it— like Stonehenge. 
No one can pretend to forget it. No one ever 
apologised to her for meeting her in the street 
on such a day and not knowing her : the pre- 
text would be too bare. Nobody can mistake 
her for another. Nobody can say of her, « I 
think I have seen that face somewhere, but I 
cannot call to mind where." You must re- 
member that in such a parlour it first struck 
you — like a bust. You wondered where the 
owner of the house had picked it up. You 
wondered more when it began to move its lips 
—so mildly too ! No one ever thought of 



asking her to sit for her picture. Lockets are 
for remembrance ; and it would be clearly 
superfluous to hang an image at your heart, 
which, once seen, can never be out of it. It is 
not a mean face either ; its entire originality 
precludes that. Neither is it of that order of 
plain faces which improve upon acquaintance. 
Some very good but ordinary people, by an 
unwearied perseverance in good offices, put a 
cheat upon our eyes ; juggle our senses out of 
their natural impressions ; and set us upon 
discovering good indications in a countenance, 
which at first sight promised nothing less. "We 
detect gentleness, which had escaped us, 
lurking about an under lip. But when Mrs. 
Conrady has done you a service, her face 
remains the same ; when she has done you a 
thousand, and you know that she is ready to 
double the number, still it is that individual 
face. Neither can you say of it, that it would 
be a good face if it were not marked by the 
small-pox — a compliment which is always more 
admissive than excusatory — for either Mrs. 
Conrady never had the small-pox : or, as we 
say, took it kindly. No, it stands upon its own 
merits fairly. There it is. It is her mark, her 
token ; that which she is known by. 



XI. 

THAT WE MUST NOT LOOK A GIFT-HORSE IN 
THE MOUTH. 

Nor a lady's age in the parish register. "We 
hope we have more delicacy than to do either ; 
but some faces spare us the trouble of these 
dental inquiries. And what if the beast, which 
my friend would force upon my acceptance, 
prove, upon the face of it, a sorry Rosinante, 
a lean, ill-favoured jade, whom no gentleman 
could think of setting up in his stables ? Must 
I, rather than not be obliged to my friend, 
make her a companion to Eclipse or Lightfoot % 
A horse-giver, no more than a horse-seller, has 
a right to palm his spavined article upon us 
for good ware. An equivalent is expected in 
either case ; and, with my own good will, I 
would no more be cheated out of my thanks 
than out of my money. Some people have a 
knack of putting upon you gifts of no real 
value, to engage you to substantial gratitude. 
We thank them for nothing. Our friend Mitis 



ELIA. 



carries this humour of never refusing a present, 
to the very point of absurdity— if it were pos- 
sible to couple the ridiculous with so much 
mistaken delicacy, and real good-nature. Not 
an apartment in his fine house (and he has a 
true taste in household decorations), but is 
stuffed up with some preposterous print or 
mirror — the worst adapted to his panels that 
may be — the presents of his friends that know 
his weakness ; while his noble Vandykes are 
displaced, to make room for a set of daubs, the 
work of some wretched artist of his acquaint- 
ance, who, having had them returned upon 
his hands for bad likenesses, finds his account 
in bestowing them here gratis. The good 
creature has not the heart to mortify the 
painter at the expense of an honest refusal. 
It is pleasant (if it did not vex one at the same 
time) to see him sitting in his dining parlour, 
surrounded with obscure aunts and cousins to 
God knows whom, while the true Lady Marys 
and Lady Bettys of his own honourable family, 
in favour to these adopted frights, are consigned 
to the stair-case and the lumber-room. In like 
manner his goodly shelves are one by one 
stripped of his favourite old authors, to give place 
to a collection of presentation copies — the flour 
and bran of modern poetry. A presentation 
copy, reader, — if haply you are yet innocent 
of such favours — is a copy of a book which 
does not sell, sent you by the author, with his 
foolish autograph at the beginning of it ; for 
which, if a stranger, he only demands your 
friendship ; if a brother author, he expects 
from you a book of yours, which does sell, in 
return. We can speak to experience, having 
by us a tolerable assortment of these gift- 
horses. Not to ride a metaphor to death — we 
are willing to acknowledge, that in some gifts 
there is sense. A duplicate out of a friend's 
library (where he has more than one copy of a 
rare author) is intelligible. There are favours, 
short of the pecuniary — a thing not fit to be 
hinted at among gentlemen — which confer as 
much grace upon the acceptor as the offerer ; 
the kind, we confess, which is most to our 
palate, is of those little conciliatory missives, 
which for their vehicle generally choose a 
hamper — little odd presents of game, fruit, 
perhaps wine — though it is essential to the 
delicacy of the latter, that it be home-made. 
We love to have our friend in the country 



sitting thus at our table by proxy ; to appre- 
hend his presence (though a hundred miles 
may be between us) by a turkey, whose goodly 
aspect reflects to us his ".plump corpusculum ;" 
to taste him in grouse or woodcock ; to feel 
him gliding down in the toast peculiar to the 
latter ; to concorporate him in a slice of Can- 
terbury brawn. This is indeed to have him 
within ourselves ; to know him intimately : 
such participation is methinks unitive, as the 
old theologians phrase it. For these consider- 
ations we should be sorry if certain restrictive 
regulations, which are thought to bear hard 
upon the peasantry of this country, were 
entirely done away with. A hare, as the law 
now stands, makes many friends. Caius con- 
ciliates Titius (knowing his gout) with a leash 
of partridges. Titius (suspecting his partiality 
for them) passes them to Lucius ; who in his 
turn, preferring his friend's relish to his own, 
makes them over to Marcius ; till in their ever- 
widening progress, and round of unconscious 
circum-migration, they distribute the seeds of 
harmony over half a parish. We are well 
disposed to this kind of sensible remembrances ; 
and are the less apt to be taken by those little 
airy tokens — impalpable to the palate — which, 
under the names of rings, lockets, keep-sakes, 
amuse some people's fancy mightily. We 
could never away with these indigestible trifles. 
They are the very kickshaws and foppery of 
friendship. 



XII. 

THAT HOME IS HOME THOUGH IT IS NEVER 
SO HOMELY. 

Homes there are, we are sure, that are no 
homes ; the home of the very poor man, and J 
another which we shall speak to presently. 
Crowded places of cheap entertainment, and 
the benches of alehouses, if they could speak, 
might bear mournful testimony to the first. 
To them the very poor man resorts for aii 
image of the home, which he cannot find at 
home. For a starved grate, and a scanty firing, 
that is not enough to keep alive the natural 
heat in the fingers of so many shivering children 
with their mother, he finds in the depths of 
winter always a blazing hearth, and a hob to 
warm his pittance of beer by. Instead of the 
clamours of a wife, made gaunt by famishing, 



POPULAR FALLACIES. 



73 



he meets with a cheerful attendance beyond 
the merits of the trifle which he can aiford to 
spend. He has companions which his home 
denies him, for the very poor man has no 
visiters. He can look into the goings on of 
the world, and speak a little to politics. At 
home there are no politics stirring, but the 
domestic. All interests, real or imaginary, all 
topics that should expand the mind of man, 
and connect him to a sympathy with general 
existence, are crushed in the absorbing con- 
sideration of food to be obtained for the family. 
Beyond the price of bread, news is senseless 
and impertinent. At home there is no larder. 
Here there is at least a show of plenty ; and 
while he cooks his lean scrap of butcher's meat 
before the common bars, or munches his 
humbler cold viands, his relishing bread and 
cheese with an onion, in a corner, where no 
one reflects upon his poverty, he has a sight of 
the substantial joint providing for the landlord 
and his family. He takes an interest in the 
dressing of it ; and while he assists in removing 
the trivet from the fire, he feels that there is 
such a thing as beef and cabbage, which he 
was beginning to forget at home. All this 
while he deserts his wife and children. But 
what wife, and what children ? Prosperous 
men, who object to this desertion, image to 
themselves some clean contented family like 
that which they go home to. But look at the 
countenance of the poor wives who follow and 
persecute their good-man to the door of the 
public-house, which he is about to enter, when 
something like shame would restrain him, if 
stronger misery did not induce him to pass the 
threshold, That face, ground by want, in 
which every cheerful, every conversable linea- 
ment has been long effaced by misery, — is that 
a face to stay at home with ? is it more a 
woman, or a wild cat ? alas ! it is the face of 
the wife of his youth, that once smiled upon 
him. It can smile no longer. What comforts 
can it share ? what burthens can it lighten ? 
Oh, 'tis a fine thing to talk of the humble 
meal shared together ! But what if there be 
no bread in the cupboard ? The innocent 
prattle of his children takes out the sting of a 
man's poverty. But the children of the very 
poor do not prattle. It is none of the least 
frightful features in that condition, that there 
is no childishness in its dwellings. Poor people, 



said a sensible old nurse to us once, do not 
bring up their children ; they drag them up. 
The little careless darling of the wealthier 
nursery, in their hovel is transformed betimes 
into a premature reflecting person. No one 
has time to dandle it, no one thinks it worth 
while to coax it, to soothe it, to toss it up and 
down, to humour it. There is none to kiss 
away its tears. If it cries, it can only be 
beaten. It has been prettily said, that " a 
babe is fed with milk and praise." But the 
aliment of this poor babe was thin, unnourish- 
ing ; the return to its little baby-tricks, and 
efforts to engage attention, bitter ceaseless 
objurgation. It never had a toy, or knew what 
a coral meant. It grew up without the lullaby 
of nurses, it was a stranger to the patient 
fondle, the hushing caress, the attracting 
novelty, the costlier plaything, or the cheaper 
off-hand contrivance to divert the child ; the 
prattled nonsense (best sense to it), the wise 
impertinences, the wholesome lies, the apt 
story interposed, that puts a stop to present 
sufferings, and awakens the passions of young 
wonder. It was never sung to — no one ever 
told to it a tale of the nursery. It was dragged 
up, to live or to die as it happened. It had no 
young dreams. It broke at once into the iron 
realities of life. A child exists not for the 
very poor as any object of dalliance ; it is only 
another mouth to be fed, a pair of little hands 
to be betimes inured to labour. It is the rival, 
till it can be the co-operator, for food with the 
parent. It is never his mirth, his diversion, 
his solace : it never makes him young again, 
with recalling his young times. The children 
of the very poor have no young times. It 
makes the very heart to bleed to overhear the 
casual street-talk between a poor woman and 
her little girl, a woman of the better sort of 
poor, in a condition rather above the squalid 
beings which we have been contemplating. It 
is not of toys, of nursery books, of summer 
holidays (fitting that age) ; of the promised 
sight, or play ; of praised sufficiency at school. 
It is of mangling and clear-starching, of the 
price of coals, or of potatoes. The questions 
of the child, that should be the very outpour- 
ings of curiosity in idleness, are marked with 
forecast and melancholy providence. It has 
come to be a woman, — before it was a child. 
It has learned to go to market ; it chaffers, it 



74 



ELIA. 



haggles, it envies, it murmurs ; it is knowing, 
acute, sharpened ; it never prattles. Had we 
not reason to say, that the home of the very 
poor is no home ? 

There is yet another home, which we are 
constrained to deny to be one. It has a larder, 
which the home of the poor man wants ; its 
fireside conveniences, of which the poor dream 
not. But with all this, it is no home. It is — 
the house of the man that is infested with 
many visiters. May we be branded for the 
veriest churl, if we deny our heart to the many 
noble-hearted friends that at times exchange 
their dwelling for our poor roof ! It is not of 
guests that we complain, but of endless, pur- 
poseless visitants ; droppers in, as they are 
called. We sometimes wonder from what sky 
they fall. It is the very error of the position 
of our lodging ; its horoscopy was ill calculated, 
being just situate in a medium — a plaguy sub- 
urban mid-space — fitted to catch idlers from 
town or country. We are older than we were, 
and age is easily put out of its way. We have 
fewer sands in our glass to reckon upon, and we 
cannot brook to see them drop in endlessly 
succeeding impertinences. At our time of 
life, to be alone sometimes is as needful as 
sleep. It is the refreshing sleep of the day- 
The growing infirmities of age manifest 
themselves in nothing more strongly, than 
in an inveterate dislike of interruption. 
The thing which we are doing, we wish to be 
permitted to do. We have neither much 
knowledge nor devices ; but there are fewer 
in the place to which we hasten. We are not 
willingly put out of our way, even at a game 
of nine-pins. While youth was, we had vast 
reversions in time future ; we are reduced to 
a present pittance, and obliged to economise 
in that article. We bleed away our moments 
now as hardly as our ducats. We cannot bear 
to have our thin wardrobe eaten and fretted 
into by moths. We are willing to barter our 
good time with a friend, who gives us in ex- 
change his own. Herein is the distinction 
between the genuine guest and the visitant. 
This latter takes your good time, and gives 
you his bad in exchange. The guest is domestic 
to you as your good cat, or household bird ; 
the visitant is your fly, that flaps in at your 
window, and out again, leaving nothing but a 
sense of disturbance, and victuals spoiled. The 



inferior functions of life begin to move heavily. 
We cannot concoct our food with interruptions. 
Our chief meal, to be nutritive, must be soli- 
tary. With difficulty we can eat before a 
guest ; and never understood what the relish 
of public feasting meant. Meats have no 
sapor, nor digestion fair play, in a crowd. The 
unexpected coming in of a visitant stops the 
machine. There is a punctual generation who 
time their calls to the precise commencement 
of your dining-hour — not to eat — but to see I 
you eat. Our knife and fork drop instinctively, 
and we feel that we have swallowed our latest 
morsel. Others again show their genius, as 
we have said, in knocking the moment you 
have just sat down to a book. They have a 
pecidiar compassionate sneer, with which they 
" hope that they do not interrupt your studies." 
Though they flutter off the next moment, to 
carry their impertinences to the nearest 
s.tudent that they can call their friend, the 
tone of the book is spoiled ; we shut the leaves, 
and, with Dante's lovers, read no more that 
day. It were well if the effect of intrusion 
were simply co-extensive with its presence ; 
but it mars all the good hours afterwards. 
These scratches in appearance leave an orifice 
that closes not hastily. " It is a prostitution 
of the bravery of friendship," says worthy 
Bishop Taylor, " to spend it upon impertinent 
people, who are, it may be, loads to their 
families, but can never ease my loads." This 
is the secret of their gaddings, their visits, and 
morning calls. They too have homes, which 
are — no homes. 



XIII. 

THAT YOU MUST LOVE ME AND LOVE MY DOG. 

" Good sir, or madam — as it may be — we 
most willingly embrace the offer of your 
friendship. We have long known your excel- 
lent qualities. We have wished to have you 
nearer to us ; to hold you within the very 
innermost fold of our heart. We can have no 
reserve towards a person of your open and 
noble nature. The frankness of your humour 
suits us exactly. We have been long looking 
for such a friend. Quick — let us disburthen 
our troubles into each other's bosom — let lis 
make our single joys shine by reduplication — 



POPULAR FALLACIES. 



75 



But yap, yap, yap! what is this confounded 
cur ? he has fastened his tooth, which is none 
of the bluntest, just in the fleshy part of my 
leg." 

" It is my dog, sir. You must love him for 
my sake. Here, Test— Test— Test !" 

K But he has bitten me." 

K Ay, that he is apt to do, till you are better 
acquainted with him. I have had him three 
years. He never bites me." 

Yap, yap, yap ! — " He is at it again." 

"Oh, sir, you must not kick him. He 
does not like to be kicked. I expect my dog 
to be treated with all the respect due to my- 
self." 

* But do you always take him out with you, 
when you go a friendship-hunting ? " 

"Invariably. 'Tis the sweetest, prettiest, 
best-conditioned animal. I call him my test — 
the touchstone by which to try a friend. No 
one can properly be said to love me, who does 
not love him." 

" Excuse us, dear sir — or madam, aforesaid 
— if upon further consideration we are obliged 
to decline the otherwise invaluable offer of 
your friendship. We do not like dogs." 

" Mighty well, sir, — you know the conditions 
— you may have worse offers. Come along, 
Test." 

The above dialogue is not so imaginary, but 
that, in the intercourse of life, we have had fre- 
quent occasions of breaking off an agreeable in- 
timacy by reason of these canine appendages. 
They do not always come in the shape of dogs; 
they sometimes wear the more plausible and 
human character of kinsfolk, near acquaint- 
ances, my friend's friend, his partner, his wife, 
or his children. We could never yet form a 
friendship — not to speak of more delicate cor- 
respondence — however much to our taste, 
without the intervention of some third ano- 
maly, some impertinent clog affixed to the 
relation — the understood dog in the proverb. 
The good things of life are not to be had singly, 
but come to us with a mixture ; like a school- 
boy's holiday, with a task affixed to the tail of 
it. What a delightful companion is * * * * if 
he did not always bring his tall cousin with 
him ! He seems to grow with him ; like some 
of those double births which we remember to 
have read of with such wonder and delight in 
the old " Athenian Oracle," where Swift com- 



menced author by writing Pindaric Odes (what 
a beginning for him !) upon Sir William Tem- 
ple. There is the picture of the brother, with 
the little brother peeping out at his shoulder ; 
a species of fraternity, which we have no name 
of kin close enough to comprehend. When 
* * * * come s, poking i n his head and shoulder 
into your room, as if to feel his entry, you 
think, surely you have now got him to your- 
self — what a three hours' chat we shall have ! 
— but ever in the haunch of him, and before 
his diffident body is well disclosed in your 
apartment, appears the haunting shadow of 
the cousin, over-peering his modest kinsman, 
and sure to overlay the expected good talk 
with his insufferable procerity of stature, and 
uncorresponding dwarfishness of observation. 
Misfortunes seldom come alone. 'Tis hard 
when a blessing comes accompanied. Cannot 
we like Sempronia, without sitting down to 
chess with her eternal brother ? or know Sul- 
picia, without knowing all the round of her 
card-playing relations ? — must my friend's 
brethren of necessity be mine also ? must we 
be hand and glove with Dick Selby the parson, 
or Jack Selby the calico-printer, because W. S., 
who, is neither, but a ripe wit and a critic, 
has the misfortune to claim a common parent- 
age with them ? Let him lay down his bro- 
thers ; and 'tis odds but we will cast him in a 
pair of ours (we have a superflux) to balance 
the concession. Let F. H. lay down his gar- 
rulous uncle ; and Honorius dismiss his vapid 
wife, and superfluous establishment of six 
boys : things between boy and manhood — too 
ripe for play, too raw for conversation — that 
come in, impudently staring their father's old 
friend out of countenance ; and will neither 
aid, nor let alone, the conference : that we 
may once more meet upon equal terms, as we 
were wont to do in the disengaged state of 
bachelorhood. 

It is well if your friend, or mistress, be con- 
tent with these canicular probations. Few 
young ladies but in this sense keep a dog. But 
when Rutilia hounds at you her tiger aunt ; 
or Ruspina expects you to cherish and fondle 
her viper sister, whom she has preposterously 
taken into her bosom, to try stinging conclu- 
sions upon your constancy ; they must not 
complain if the house be rather thin of suitors. 
Scylla must have broken off many excellent 



76 



ELIA. 



matches in her time, if she insisted upon all, 
that loved her, loving her dogs also. 

An excellent story to this moral is told of 
Merry, of Delia Cruscan memory. In tender 
youth he loved and courted a modest appanage 
to the Opera, — in truth a dancer, — who had 
won him by the artless contrast between her 
manners and situation. She seemed to him 
a native violet, that had been transplanted by 
some rude accident into that exotic and ar- 
tificial hotbed. Nor, in truth, was she less 
genuine and sincere than she appeared to him. 
He wooed and won this flower. Only for ap- 
pearance' sake, and for due honour to the bride's 
relations, she craved that she might have the 
attendance of her friends and kindred at the 
approaching solemnity. The request was too 
amiable not to be conceded : and in this solici- 
tude for conciliating the good-will of mere re- 
lations, he found a presage of her saiperior 
attentions to himself, when the golden shaft 
should have " killed the flock of all affections 
else." The morning came : and at the Star 
and Garter, Richmond — the place appointed 
for the breakfasting — accompanied with one 
English friend, he impatiently awaited what 
reinforcements the bride should bring to grace 
the ceremony. A rich muster she had made. 
They came in six coaches — the whole corps 
du ballet — French, Italian, men and women- 
Monsieur de B., the famous pirouetter of the 
day, led his fair spouse, but craggy, from 
the banks of the Seine. The Prima Donna 
had sent her excuse. But the first and 
second BufFa were there; and Signor Sc — , 
and Signora Ch — , and Madame V — , with a 
countless cavalcade besides of chorusers, figur- 
antes ! at the sight of whom Merry afterwards 
declared, that " then for the first time it struck 
him seriously, that he was about to marry — a 
dancer." But there was no help for it. Be- 
sides, it was her day ; these were, in fact, her 
friends and kinsfolk. The assemblage, though 
whimsical, was all very natural. But when 
the bride — handing out of the last coach a still 
more extraordinary figure than the rest — pre- 
sented to him as her father — the gentleman that 
was to give her away — no less a person than 
Signor Delpini himself — witfh a sort of pride, 
as much as to say, See what I have brought to 
do us honour ! — the thought of so extraordi- 
nary a paternity quite overcame him ; and 



slipping away under some pretence from the 
bride and her motley adherents, poor Merry 
took horse from the back yard to the nearest 
sea-coast, from which, shipping himself to 
America, he shortly after consoled himself 
with a more congenial match in the person of 
Miss Brunton ; relieved from his intended 
clown father, and a bevy of painted buffas for 
bridemaids. 



XIV. 

THAT WE SHOULD RISE WITH THE LARK. 

At what precise minute that little airy 
musician doffs his night gear, and prepares to 
tune up his unseasonable matins, we are not 
naturalists enough to determine. But for a 
mere human gentleman— that has no orchestra 
business to call him from his warm bed to 
such preposterous exercises — we take ten, or 
half after ten (eleven, of course, during this 
Christmas solstice), to be the very earliest 
hour at which he can begin to think of aban- 
doning his pillow. To think of it, we say ; 
for to do it in earnest requires another half 
hour's good consideration. Not but there are 
pretty sun-risings, as we are told, and such 
like gawds, abroad in the world, in summer- 
time especially, some hours before what we 
have assigned ; which a gentleman may see, 
as they say, only for getting up. But having 
been tempted once or twice, in earlier life, to 
assist at those ceremonies, we confess our curi- 
osity abated. We are no longer ambitious of 
being the sun's courtiers, to attend at his 
morning levees. We hold the good hours of 
the dawn too sacred to waste them upon such 
observances; which have in them, besides, some- 
thing Pagan and Persic. To say truth, we never 
anticipated our usual hour, or got up with the 
sun (as 'tis called), to go a journey, or upon a 
foolish whole day's pleasuring, but we suffered 
for it all the long hours after in listlessness 
and headaches ; Nature herself sufficiently 
declaring her sense of our presumption in 
aspiring to regulate our frail waking courses 
the measures of that celestial and sleepless 
traveller. We deny not that there is some- 
thing sprightly and vigorous, at the outset 
especially, in these break-of-day excursions. 
It is nattering to get the start of a lazy world; 



POPULAB FALLACIES. 



77 



to conquer death by proxy in his image. But 
the seeds of sleep and mortality are in us ; 
and we pay usually, in strange qualms before 
night falls, the penalty of the unnatural inver- 
sion. Therefore, while the busy part of man- 
kind are fast huddling on their clothes, are 
already up and about their occupations, con- 
tent to have swallowed their sleep by whole- 
sale ; we choose to linger a-bed, and digest 
our dreams. It is the very time to recombine 
the wandering images, which night in a con- 
fused mass presented ; to snatch them from 
forgetfulness ; to shape, and mould them. 
Some people have no good of their dreams. 
Like fast feeders, they gulp them too grossly, 
to taste them curiously. We love to chew the 
cud of a foregone vision : to collect the scat- 
tered rays of a brighter phantasm, or act over 
again, with firmer nerves, the sadder noctur- 
nal tragedies ; to drag into day-light a strug- 
gling and half- vanishing night-mare ; to handle 
and examine the terrors, or the airy solaces. 
We have too much respect for these spiritual 
communications, to let them go so lightly. We 
are not so stupid, or so careless as that Imperial 
forgetter of his dreams, that we should need a 
seer to remind us of the form of them. They 
seem to us to have as much significance as our 
waking concerns : or rather to import us more 
nearly, as more nearly we approach by years to 
the shadowy world, whither we are hastening. 
We have shaken hands with the world's busi- 
ness; we have done with it ; we have discharged 
ourself of it. Why should we get up ? we have 
neither suit to solicit, nor affairs to manage. 
The drama has shut in upon us at the fourth 
act. We have nothing here to expect, but 
in a short time a sick bed, and a dismissal. 
We delight to anticipate death by such sha- 
dows as night affords. We are already half 
acquainted with ghosts. We were never 
much in the world. Disappointment early 
struck a dark veil between us and its dazzling 
illusions. Our spirits showed grey before our 
hairs. The mighty changes of the world al- 
ready appear as but the vain stuff out of which 
dramas are composed. We have asked no 
more of life than what the mimic images in 
play-houses present us with. Even those types 
have waxed fainter. Our clock appears to 
have struck. We are superannuated. In 
this dearth of mundane satisfaction, we con- 



tract politic alliances with shadows. It is good 
to have friends at court. The abstracted media 
of dreams seem no ill introduction to that 
spiritual presence, upon which, in no long- 
time, we expect to be thrown. We are trying 
to know a little of the usages of that colony ; to 
learn the language, and the faces we shall meet 
with there, that we may be the less awkward 
at our first coming among them. We willingly 
call a phantom our fellow, as knowing we shall 
soon be of their dark companionship. There- 
fore, we cherish dreams. We try to spell 
in them the alphabet of the invisible world ; 
and think we know already, how it shall be 
with us. Those uncouth shapes, which, while 
we clung to flesh and blood, affrighted us, 
have become familiar. We feel attenuated 
into their meagre essences, and have given the 
hand of half-way approach to incorporeal being. 
We once thought life to be something ; but it 
has unaccountably fallen from us before its 
time. Therefore we choose to dally with 
visions. The sun has no purposes of ours to 
light us to. Why should we get up ? 



XV. 

THAT WE SHOULD LIE DOWN WITH THE 
LAMB. 
We could never quite understand the philo- 
sophy of this arrangement, or the wisdom of our 
ancestors in sending us for instruction to these 
woolly bedfellows. A sheep, when it is dark, 
has nothing to do but to shut his silly eyes, 
and sleep if he can. Man found out long sixes, 
■ — Hail, candle-light ! without disparagement 
to sun or moon, the kindliest luminary of the 
three — if we may not rather style thee their 
radiant deputy, mild viceroy of the moon ! — 
We love to read, talk, sit silent, eat, drink, 
sleep, by candle-light. They are everybody's 
sun and moon. This is our peculiar and house- 
hold planet. Wanting it, what savage unsocial 
nights must our ancestors have spent, winter- 
ing in caves and unillumined fastnesses ! They 
must have lain about and grumbled at one 
another in the dark. What repartees could 
have passed, when you must have felt about for 
a smile, and handled a neighbour's cheek to be 
sure that he understood it ? This accounts for 



78 



ELIA. 



the seriousness of the elder poetry. It has a 
sombre cast (try Hesiod or Ossian), derived 
from the tradition of those unlantern'd nights. 
Jokes came in with candles. "We wonder how 
they saw to pick up a pin, if they had any. 
How did they sup ? what a melange of chance 
carving they must have made of it ! — here 
one had got a leg of a goat, when he wanted a 
horse's shoulder — there another had dipped 
his scooped palm in a kid-skin of wild honey, 
when he meditated right mare's milk. There 
is neither good eating nor drinking in fresco. 
Who, even in these civilised times, has never 
experienced this, when at some economic table 
he has commenced dining after dusk, and 
waited for the flavour till the lights came ? 
The senses absolutely give and take recipro- 
cally. Can you tell pork from veal in the 
dark ? or distinguish Sherris from pure Malaga? 
Take away the candle from the smoking man ; 
by the glimmering of the left ashes, he knows 
that he is still smoking, but he knows it only 
by an inference ; till the restored light, coming 
in aid of the olfactories, reveals to both senses 
the full aroma. Then how he redoubles his 
puffs ! how he burnishes ! — There is absolutely 
no such thing as reading but by a candle. "We 
have tried the affectation of a book at noon- 
day in gardens, and in sultry arbours ; but it 
was labour thrown away. Those gay motes 
in the beam come about you, hovering and 
teasing, like so many coquettes, that will have 
you all to their self, and are jealous of your 
abstractions. By the midnight taper, the 
writer digests his meditations. By the same 
light we must approach to their perusal, if we 
would catch the flame, the odour. It is a 
mockery, all that is reported of the influential 
Phoebus. No true poem ever owed its birth to 
the sun's light. They are abstracted works — 

" Things that were born, when none but the still night, 
And his dumb candle, saw his pinching throes." 

Marry, daylight — daylight might furnish the 
images, the crude material ; but for the fine 
shapings, the true turning and filing (as mine 
author hath it), they must be content to hold 
their inspiration of the candle. The mild 
internal light, that reveals them, like fires on 
the domestic hearth, goes out in the sun-shine. 
Night and silence call out the starry fancies. 
Milton's Morning Hymn in Paradise, we would 



hold a good wager, was penned at midnight ; 
and Taylor's rich description of a sun-rise 
smells decidedly of the taper. Even ourself, 
in these our humbler lucubrations, tune our. 
best-measured cadences (Prose has her 
cadences) not unfrequently to the charm of 
the drowsier watchman, " blessing the doors ;" 
or the wild sweep of winds at midnight. Even 
now a loftier speculation than we have yet 
attempted, courts our endeavours. We would 
indite something about the Solar System. — 
Betty, bring tha candles. 



XVI. 

THAT A SULKY TEMPER IS A MISFORTUNE. 

We grant that it is, and a very serious one 
— to a man's friends, and to all that have to do 
with him ; but whether the condition of the 
man himself is so much to be deplored may 
admit of a question. We can speak a little to 
it, being ourself but lately recovered — we 
whisper it in confidence, reader — out of a long 
and desperate fit of the sullens. Was the cure 
a blessing ? The conviction which wrought it, 
came too clearly to leave a scruple of the fan- 
ciful injuries — for they were mere fancies — 
which had provoked the humour. But the 
humour itself was too self-pleasing, while it 
lasted — we know how bare we lay ourself in 
the confession — to be abandoned all at once 
with the grounds of it. We still brood over 
wrongs which we know to have been imaginary $ 

and for our old acquaintance N , whom we 

find to have been a truer friend than we took 
him for, we substitute some phantom — a Caius 
or a Titius — as like him as we dare to form it, 
to wreak our yet unsatisfied resentments on. 
It is mortifying to fall at once from the pinnacle 
of neglect ; to forego the idea of having been 
ill-used and contumaciously treated, by an old 
friend. The first thing to aggrandise a man in 
his own conceit, is to conceive of himself as 
neglected. There let him fix if he can. To 
undeceive him is to deprive him of the most 
tickling morsel within the range of self-com- 
placency. No flattery can come near it. Happy 
is he who suspects his friend of an injustice ; 
but supremely blest, who thinks all his friends 
in a conspiracy to depress and undervalue 



POPULAR FALLACIES. 



79 



him. There is a pleasure (we sing not to the 
profane) far beyond the reach of all that the 
world counts joy — a deep, enduring satisfaction 
in the depths, where the superficial seek it 
not, of discontent. Were we to recite one half 
of this mystery, — which we were let into by 
our late dissatisfaction, all the world would be 
in love with disrespect; we should wear a 
slight for a bracelet, and neglects and contu- 
macies would be the only matter for courtship. 
Unlike to that mysterious book in the Apo- 
calypse, the study of this mystery is unpalatable 
only in the commencement. The first sting 
of a suspicion is grievous ; but wait — out of 
that wound, which to flesh and blood seemed 
so difficult, there is balm and honey to be 
extracted. Your friend passed you on such 
or such a day, — having in his company one 
that you conceived worse than ambiguously 
disposed towards you, — passed you in the street 
without notice. To be sure he is something 
short-sighted ; and it was in your power to 
have accosted him. But facts and sane infer- 
ences are trifles to a true adept in the science 
of dissatisfaction. He must have seen you ; 

and S , who was with him, must have been 

the cause of the contempt. It galls you, and 
well it may. But have patience. Go home, 
and make the worst of it, and you are a made 
man from this time Shut yourself up, and — 
rejecting, as an enemy to your peace, every 
whispering suggestion that but insinuates there 
may be a mistake — reflect seriously upon the 
many lesser instances which you had begun to 
perceive, in proof of your friend's disaffection 
towards you. None of them singly was much 
to the purpose, but the aggregate weight is 
positive ; and you have this last affront to 
clench them. Thus far the process is anything 
but agreeable. But now to your relief comes 
in the comparative faculty. You conjure up 
all the kind feelings you have had for your 
friend ; what you have been to him, and what 
you would have been to him, if he would have 
suffered you ; how you defended him in this 
or that place ; and his good name— his literary 
reputation, and so forth, was always dearer to 
you than your own ! Your heart, spite of itself, 
yearns towards him. You could weep tears of 
blood but for a restraining pride. How say 
you ! do you not yet begin to apprehend a 
comfort ? some allay of sweetness in the bitter 



waters ? Stop not here, nor penuriously cheat 
yourself of your reversions. — You are on van- 
tage ground. Enlarge your speculations, and 
take in the rest of your friends, as a spark 
kindles more sparks. Was there one among 
them, who has not to you proved hollow, false, 
slippery as water ? Begin to think that the 
relation itself is inconsistent with mortality. 
That the very idea of friendship, with its compo- 
nent parts, as honour, fidelity, steadiness, exists 
but in your single bosom. Image yourself to 
yourself, as the only possible friend in a world 
incapable of that communion. Now the gloom 
thickens. The little star of self-love twinkles, 
that is to encourage you through deeper glooms 
than this. You are not yet at the half point 
of your elevation. You are not yet, believe 
me, half sulky enough. Adverting to the world 
in general, (as these circles in the mind will 
spread to infinity,) reflect with what strange 
injustice you have been treated in quarters 
where (setting gratitude and the expectation 
of friendly returns aside as chimeras) you 
pretended no claim beyond justice, the naked 
due of all men. Think the very idea of right 
and fit fled from the earth, or your breast 
the solitary receptacle of it, till you have 
swelled yourself into at least one hemisphere; 
the other being the vast Arabia Stony of your 
friends and the world aforesaid. To grow 
bigger every moment in your own conceit, and 
the world to lessen ; to deify yourself at the 
expense of your species ; to judge the world 
— this is the acme and snpreme point of your 
mystery- — these the true Pleasures of Sulki- 
ness. We profess no more of this grand 
secret than what ourself experimented on one 
rainy afternoon in the last week, sulking in 
our study. We had proceeded to the penul- 
timate point, at which the true adept seldom 
stops, where the consideration of benefit for- 
got is about to merge in the meditation of 
general injustice — when a knock at the door 
was followed by the entrance of the very friend 
whose not seeing of us in the morning, (for 
we will now confess the case our own,) an acci- 
dental oversight, had given rise to so much 
agreeable generalisation ! To mortify us still 
more, and take down the whole flattering su- 
perstructure which pride had piled upon neg- 
lect, he had brought in his hand the identical 
S , in whose favour we had suspected 



80 



ELIA. 



him of the contumacy. Asseverations were 
needless, where the frank manner of them 
both was convictive of the injurious nature of 
the suspicion. We fancied that they perceived 
our embarrassment ; but were too proud, or 
something else, to confess to the secret of it. 
"We had been but too lately in the condition of 
the noble patient in Argos : — 



Qui se credebat miros audire tragcedos, 
In vacuo laetus sessor plausorque theatro— 

and could have exclaimed with equal reason 
against the friendly hands that cured us — 

Pol, me occidistis, amici, 
Non servastis, ait ; cui sic extorta voluptas, 
Et demptus per vim mentis gratissimus error. 



TALES 



SHAKSPEARE 



PREFACE. 

The following Tales are meant to be submitted to the young reader as an introduction to the study of 
Shakspeare, for -which purpose his words are used whenever it seemed possible to bring them in ; and in 
whatever has been added to give them the regular form of a connected story, diligent care has been taken 
to select such words as might least interrupt the effect of the beautiful English tongue in which he wrote : 
therefore, words introduced into our language since his time have been as far as possible avoided. 

In those Tales which have been taken from the Tragedies, as my young readers will perceive, when 
they come to see the source from which these stories are derived, Shakspeare's own words, with little 
alteration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well as in the dialogue ; but in those 'made from the 
Comedies, I found myself scarcely ever able to turn his words into the narrative form : therefore I 
fear, in them, I have made use of dialogue too frequently for young people not used to the dramatic 
form of writing. But this fault, if it be, as I fear, a fault, has been caused by my earnest wish to give as 
much of Shakspeare's own words as possible : and if the " He said" and " She said, 1 " the question and 
the reply, should sometimes seem tedious to their young ears, they must pardon it, because it was the 
only way I knew of in which I could give them a few hints and little foretastes of the great pleasure 
which awaits them in their elder years, when they come to the rich treasures from which these small and 
valueless coins are extracted ; pretending to no other merit than as faint and imperfect stamps of Shak- 
speare's matchless image. Faint and imperfect images they must be called, because the beauty of his language 
is too frequently destroyed by the necessity of changing many of his excellent words into words far less 
expressive of his true sense, to make it read something like prose ; and even in some few places, where his 
blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping from its simple plainness to cheat the young readers into the 
belief that they are reading prose, yet still his language being transplanted from its own natural soil and 
wild poetic garden, it must want much of its native beauty. 

I have wished to make these Tales easy reading for very young children. To the utmost of my ability 
I have constantly kept this in my mind ; but the subjects of most of them made this a very difficult 
task. It was no easy matter to give the histories of men and women in terms familiar to the appre- 
hension of a very young mind. . For young ladies too it has been my intention chiefly to write ; because 
boys are generally permitted the use of their fathers' libraries at a much earlier age than girls are, they 
frequently having the best scenes of Shakspeare by heart, before their sisters are permitted to look into 
this manly book ; and, therefore, instead of recommending these Tales to the perusal of young gentlemen 
who can read them so much better in the originals, I must rather beg their kind assistance in explaining 
to their sisters such parts as are hardest for them to understand : and when they have helped them to get 
over the "difficulties, then perhaps they will read to them (carefully selecting what is proper for a young 
sister's ear) some passage which has pleased them in one of these stories, in the very words of the scene 
from which it is taken ; and I trust they will find that the beautiful extracts, the select passages, they 
may choose to give their sisters in this way, will be much better relished and understood from their having 
some notion of the general story from one of these imperfect abridgments : — which if they be fortunately 
so done as to prove delightful to any of you, my young readers, I hope will have no worse effect upon you 
than to make you wish yourselves a little older, that you may be allowed to read the Plays at full length 
(such a wish will be neither peevish nor irrational). When time and leave of judicious friends shall put 
them into your hands, you will discover in such of them as are here abridged (not to mention almost as 
many more, which are left untouched) many surprising events and turns of fortune, which for their infinite 
variety could not be contained in this little book, besides a world of sprightly and cheerful characters, both 
men and women, the humour of which I was fearful of losing if I attempted to reduce the length of them. 

What these tales have been to you in childhood, that and much more it is my wish that the true Plays 
of Shakspeare may prove to you in older years — enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a with- 
drawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts and actions, 
to teach you courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity : for of examples, teaching these virtues, his pages 
are full. 



CONTENTS. 



[Those marked with an asterisk are by the Authors Sister.'] 



PAGB 

*THE TEMPEST 1 

*A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 5 

*THE WINTER'S TALE 10 

*MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING ....„- 14 

*AS YOU LIKE IT . . 19 

*THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 25 

*THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 30 

* CYMBELINE , 35 

KING LEAR 40 

MACBETH 46 

* ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 50 

*THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 55 

*THE COMEDY OF ERRORS ." 59 

^MEASURE FOR MEASURE 64 

* TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL • . . 70 

TIMON OF ATHENS 75 

ROMEO AND JULLET 80 

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK . . . • . . . • . . . . . 87 

OTHELLO 93 

* PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE 98 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE 



THE TEMPEST. 



There was a certain island in the sea, the 
only inhabitants of which were an old man, 
whose name was Prospero, and his daughter 
Miranda, a very beautiful young lady. She 
came to this island so young, that she had no 
memory of having seen any other human face 
than her father's. 

They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a 
rock : it was divided into several apartments, 
one of which Prospero called his study ; there 
he kept his books, which chiefly treated of 
magic, a study at that time much affected by 
all learned men : and the knowledge of this art 
he found very useful to him ; for, being thrown 
by a strange chance upon this island, which 
had been enchanted by a witch called Syco- 
rax, who died there a short time before his 
arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his art, released 
many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned 
in the bodies of large trees, because they had 
refused to execute her wicked commands. 
These gentle spirits were ever after obedient 
to the will of Prospero. Of these Ariel was 
the chief. 

The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing 
mischievous in his nature, except that he took 
rather too much pleasure in tormenting an 
ugly monster called Caliban ; for he owed him 
a grudge, because he was the son of his old 
enemy Sycorax. This Caliban Prospero found 
in the woods, a strange mis-shapen thing, 
far less human in form than an ape : he took 
him home to his cell, and taught him to speak; 
and Prospero would have been very kind to 
him, but the bad nature which Caliban inherited 
from his mother Sycorax, would not let him 
learn anything good or useful : therefore he 
was employed like a slave, to fetch wood, and 
do the most laborious offices ; and Ariel had 
the charge of compelling him to these services. 

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his 
work, Ariel (who was invisible to all eyes but 
Prospero's) would come slily and pinch him, 
and sometimes tumble him down in the mire ; 



and then Ariel, in the likeness of an ape, would 
make mouths at him ; then swiftly changing 
his shape, in the likeness of a hedgehog he 
would lie tumbling in Caliban's way, who feared 
the hedgehog's sharp quills would prick his 
bare feet. With a variety of such-like vex- 
atious tricks Ariel would often torment him, 
whenever Caliban neglected the work which 
Prospero commanded him to do. 

Having these powerful spirits obedient to 
his will, Prospero could by their means com- 
mand the winds and the waves of the sea. By 
his orders they raised a violent storm ; in the 
midst of which, and struggling with the wild 
sea-waves, that every moment threatened to 
swallow it up, he showed his daughter a fine 
large ship, which he told her was full of living 
beings like themselves. " O my dear father," 
said she, " if by your art you have raised this 
dreadful storm, have pity on their sad distress. 
See ! the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor 
souls ! they will all perish. If I had power, I 
would sink the sea beneath the earth, rather 
than the good ship should be destroyed, with 
all the precious souls within her." 

" Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda," said 
Prospero ; " there is no harm done. I have so 
ordered it, that no person in the ship shall 
receive any hurt. What I have done has been 
in care of you, my dear child. You are igno- 
rant who you are, or where you came from, 
and you know no more of me, but that I am 
your father, and live in this poor cave. Can 
you remember a time before you came to this 
cell ? I think you cannot, for you were not 
then three years of age." 

" Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda. 

" By what ? " asked Prospero ; " by any other 
house or person ? Tell me what you can re- 
member, my child." 

Miranda said, "It seems to me like the 
recollection of a dream. But had I not once 
four or five women who attended upon me ?" 

Prospero answered, " You had, and more. 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



How is it that this still lives in your mind ? 
Do you remember how you came here ? " 

" No, sir," said Miranda, " I remember 
nothing more." 

"Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued 
Prospero, " I was duke of Milan, and you were 
a princess, and my only heir. I had a younger 
brother, whose name was Antonio, to whom I 
trusted everything ; and as I was fond of 
retirement and deep study, I commonly left 
the management of my state affairs to your 
uncle my false brother (for so indeed he 
proved). I, neglecting all worldly ends, 
buried among my books, did dedicate my 
whole time to the bettering of my mind. My 
brother Antonio being thus in possession of 
my power, began to think himself the duke 
indeed. The opportunity I gave him of making 
himself popular among my subjects awakened 
in his bad nature a proud ambition to de- 
prive me of my dukedom ; this he soon effected 
with the aid of the king of Naples, a powerful 
prince, who was my enemy." 

" Wherefore," said Miranda, " did they not 
that hour destroy us 2 " 

" My child," answered her father, " they 
durst not, so dear was the love that my people 
bore me. Antonio carried us on board a ship, 
and when we were some leagues out at sea, 
he forced us into a small boat, without either 
tackle, sail, or mast ; there he left us, as he 
thought, to perish. But a kind lord of my 
court, one Gonzalo, who loved me, had privately 
placed in the boat, water, pro visions, apparel, and 
some books which I prize above my dukedom." 

" my father," said Miranda, " what a 
trouble must I have been to you then !" 

" No, my love," said Prospero, " you were a 
little cherub that did preserve me. Your 
innocent smiles made me to bear up against 
my misfortunes. Our food lasted till we landed 
on this desert island, since when my chief 
delight has been in teaching you, Miranda, and 
well have you profited by my instructions." 

" Heaven thank you, my dear father," said 
Miranda. " Now pray tell me, sir, your reason 
for raising this sea- storm." 

" Know, then," said her father, " that by 
means of this storm, my enemies, the king of 
Naples, and my cruel brother, are cast ashore 
upon this island." 

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his 
daughter with his magic wand, and she fell fast 
asleep ; for the spirit Ariel just then presented 
himself before his master, to give an account 
of the tempest, and how he had disposed of 
the ship's company ; and, though the spirits 
were always invisible to Miranda, Prospero 
did not choose she should hear him holding 
converse (as would seem to her) with the 
empty air. 

" Well, my brave spirit," said Prospero to 
Ariel, " how have you performed your task ? " 

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, 



and of the terrors of the mariners ; and how 
the king's son, Ferdinand, was the first who 
leaped into the sea ; and his father thought he 
saw this dear son swallowed up by the waves 
and lost. " But he is safe," said Ariel, "in a 
corner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded 
sadly, lamenting the loss of the king his father, 
whom he concludes drowned. Not a hair of 
his head is injured ; and his princely garments, 
though drenched in the sea- waves, look fresher 
than before." 

" That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. 
" Bring him hither : my daughter must see 
this young prince. Where is the king and 
my brother ? " 

" I left them," answered Ariel, " searching 
for Ferdinand, whom they have little hopes 
of finding, thinking they saw him perish. Of 
the ship's crew not one is missing, though each 
one thinks himself the only one saved ; and 
the ship, though invisible to them, is safe in the 
harbour." 

" Ariel," said Prospero, " thy charge is faith- 
fully performed : but there is more work yet." 

" Is there more work ? " said Ariel. " Let 
me remind you, master, you have promised me 
my liberty. I pray, remember, I have done 
you worthy service, told you no lies, made no 
mistakes, served you without grudge or grum- 
bling." 

" How now ? " said Prospero. " You do not 
recollect what a torment I freed you from. 
Have you forgot the wicked witch Sycorax, who 
with age and envy was almost bent double ? 
Where was she born ? Speak : tell me." 

" Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel. 

" O was she so ? " said Prospero. " I must 
recount what you have been, which I find you 
do not remember. This bad witch Sycorax, 
for her witchcrafts, too terrible to enter human 
hearing, was banished from Algiers, and here 
left by the sailors ; and because you were a 
spirit too delicate to execute her wicked com- 
mands, she shut you up in a tree, where I found 
you howling. This torment, remember, I did 
free you from." 

"Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, 
ashamed to seem ungrateful ; " I will obey 
your commands." 

" Do so," said Prospero, " and I will set you 
free." He then gave orders what farther he 
would have him do ; and away went Ariel, 
first to where he had left Ferdinand, and found 
him still sitting on the grass in the same 
melancholy posture. 

" O my young gentleman," said Ariel, when 
he saw him, " I will soon move you. You must 
be brought I find, for the lady Miranda to have 
a sight of your pretty person. Come, sir, fol- 
low me." He then began singing — 

"Full fathom five thy father lies: 

Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes : 

Nothing of him that doth fade, 



THE TEMPEST. 



But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell ; 
Hark, now I hear them, ding-dong-hell." 

This strange news of his lost father soon 
roused the prince from the stupid fit into which 
he had fallen. He followed in amazement the 
sound of Ariel's voice, till it led him to Pros- 
pero and Miranda, who were sitting under the 
shade of a large tree. Now Miranda had 
never seen a man before except her own 
father. 

" Miranda," said Prospero, " tell me what 
you are looking at yonder." 

" O father," said Miranda, in a strange sur- 
prise, " surely that is a spirit. Lord ! how it 
looks about ! Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful 
creature. Is it not a spirit ?" 

" No, girl," answered her father ; " it eats 
and sleeps, and has senses such as we have. 
This young man you see was in the ship ; he 
is somewhat altered by grief, or you might 
call him a handsome person : he has lost his 
companions, and is wandering about to find 
them." 

Miranda, who thought all men had grave 
faces and grey beards like her father, was de- 
lighted with the appearance of this beautiful 
young prince ; and Ferdinand, seeing such a 
lovely lady in this desert place, and, from the 
strange sounds he had heard, expecting nothing 
but wonders, thought he was upon an en- 
chanted island, and that Miranda was the 
goddess of the place, and as such he began to 
address her. 

She timidly answered she was no goddess, 
but a simple maid, and was going to give him 
an account of herself, when Prospero inter- 
rupted her. He was well pleased to find they 
admired each other, for he plainly perceived 
they had (as we say) fallen in love at first 
sight : but to try Ferdinand's constancy, he 
resolved to throw some difficulties in their 
way : therefore, advancing forward, he ad- 
dressed the prince with a stern air, telling him 
he came to the island as a spy, to take it from 
him who was the lord of it. " Follow me," 
said he, " I will tie you, neck and feet together. 
You shall drink sea-water ; shell-fish, withered 
roots, and husks of acorns, shall be your food." 
" No," said Ferdinand, " I will resist such 
entertainment till I see a more powerful 
enemy," and drew his sword ; but Prospero, 
waving his magic wand, fixed him to the 
spot where he stood, so that he had no power 
to move. 

Miranda hung upon her father, saying, 
« "Why are you so ungentle % Have pity, sir ; I 
will be his surety. This is the second man I 
ever saw, and to me he seems a true one." 

" Silence," said her father ; a one word more 
will make me chide you, girl ! What ! an ad- 
vocate for an impostor ! You think there are 
no more such fine men, having seen only him 



and Caliban. I tell you, foolish girl, most men 
as far excel this as he does Caliban." This 
he said to prove his daughter's constancy ; 
and she replied, " My affections are most 
humble. I have no wish to see a goodlier 
man." 

" Come on, young man," said Prospero to the 
prince, "you have no power to disobey me." 

" I have not indeed," answered Ferdinand ; 
and not knowing that it was by magic he was 
deprived of all power of resistance, he was 
astonished to find himself so strangely com- 
pelled to follow Prospero ; looking back on 
Miranda as long as he could see her, he said, 
as he went after Prospero into the cave, " My 
spirits are all bound up, as if I were in a 
dream : but this man's threats and the weak- 
ness which I feel, would seem light to me, if 
from my prison I might once a day behold this 
fair maid." 

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined 
within the cell : he soon brought out his 
prisoner, and set him a severe task to perform, 
taking care to let his daughter know the hard 
labour he had imposed on him, and then pre- 
tending to go into his study, he secretly watched 
them both. 

Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile 
up some heavy logs of wood. Kings' sons 
not being much used to laborious work, 
Miranda soon after found her lover almost 
dying with fatigue. " Alas ! " said she, " do 
not work so hard ; my father is at his studies, 
he is safe for these three hours : pray rest 
yourself." 

" O my dear lady," said Ferdinand, u I dare 
not. I must finish my task before I take my 
rest." 

" If you will sit down," said Miranda, " I 
will carry your logs the while." But this 
Ferdinand would by no means agree to. In- 
stead of a help Miranda became a hinderance, 
for they began a long conversation, so that 
the business of log-carrying went on very 
slowly. 

Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this 
task merely as a trial of his love, was not at 
his books as his daughter supposed, but was 
standing by them invisible, to overhear what 
they said. 

Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told 
him, saying it was against her father's express 
command she did so. 

Prospero only smiled at this first instance of 
his daughter's disobedience, for having by his 
magic art caused his daughter to fall in love 
so suddenly, he was not angry that she showed 
her love by forgetting to obey his commands. 
And he listened well pleased to a long speech 
of Ferdinand's in which he professed to love 
her above all the ladies he ever saw. 

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which 
he said exceeded all the women's in the world, 
she replied, " I do not remember the face of 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEAKE. 



any woman, nor have I seen any more men 
than you, my good friend, and my dear father. 
How features are abroad, I know not ; but 
believe me, sir, I would not wish any com- 
panion in the world but you, nor can my 
imagination form any shape but yours that I 
could like. But, sir, I fear I talk to you too 
freely, and my father's precepts I forget." 

At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his 
head, as much as to say, " This goes on ex- 
actly as I could wish ; my girl will be queen 
of Naples." 

And then Ferdinand, in another fine long 
speech (for young princes speak in courtly 
phrases), told the innocent Miranda, he was 
heir to the crown of Naples, and that she 
should be his queen. 

" Ah ! sir," said she, " I am a fool to weep at 
what I am glad of. I will answer you in plain 
and holy innocence. I am your wife if you 
will marry me." 

Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by 
appearing visible before them. 

" Fear nothing, my child," said he ; "I have 
overheard, and approve of all you have said. 
And Ferdinand, if I have too severely used 
you, I will make you rich amends by giving 
you my daughter. All your vexations were 
but trials of your love, and you have nobly 
stood the test. Then as my gift, which your 
true love has worthily purchased, take my 
daughter, and do not smile that I boast she is 
above all praise." He then, telling them that 
he had business which required his presence, 
desired they would sit down and talk together 
till he returned ; and this command Miranda 
seemed not at all disposed to disobey. 

When Prospero left them, he called his 
spirit Ariel, who quickly appeared before him, 
eager to relate what he had done with Pros- 
pero's brother and the king of Naples. Ariel 
said, he had left them almost out of their 
senses with fear, at the strange things he had 
caused them to see and hear. When fatigued 
with wandering about, and famished for want 
of food, he had suddenly set before them a 
delicious banquet, and then, just as they were 
going to eat, he appeared visible before them 
in the shape of a harpy, a voracious monster 
with wings, and the feast vanished away. 
Then, to their utter amazement, this seeming 
harpy spoke to them, reminding them of their 
cruelty in driving Prospero from his dukedom, 
and leaving him and his infant daughter to 
perish in the sea ; saying, that for this cause 
these terrors were suffered to afflict them. 

The king of Naples and Antonio the false 
brother, repented the injustice they had done 
to Prospero : and Ariel told his master he was 
certain their penitence was sincere, and that 
he, though a spirit, could not but pity them. 

" Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Pros- 
pero: "if you, who are but a spirit, feel for 
their distress, shall not I, who am a human being 



like themselves, have compassion on them ? 
Bring them quickly, my dainty Ariel." 

Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, 
and old Gonzalo in their train, who had fol- 
lowed him, wondering at the wild music he 
played in the air to draw them on to his 
master's presence. This Gonzalo was the 
same who had so kindly provided Prospero 
formerly with books and provisions, when his 
wicked brother left him, as he thought, to 
perish in an open boat in the sea. 

Grief and terror had so stupified their senses 
that they did not know Prospero. He first 
discovered himself to the good old Gonzalo, 
calling him the preserver of his life ; and then 
his brother and the king knew that he was the 
injured Prospero. 

Antonio, with tears, and sad words of sorrow 
and true repentance, implored his brother's 
forgiveness, and the king expressed his sin- 
cere remorse for having assisted Antonio to 
depose his brother : and Prospero forgave 
them ; and upon their engaging to restore his 
dukedom, he said to the king of Naples, " I 
have a gift in store for you too ;" and opening 
a door, showed him his son Ferdinand playing 
at chess with Miranda. 

Nothing could exceed the joy of the father 
and the son at this unexpected meeting, for 
they each thought the other drowned in the 
storm. 

" O wonder ! " said Miranda, " what noble 
creatures these are ! It must surely be a brave 
world that has such people in it." 

The king of Naples was almost as much 
astonished at the beauty and excellent graces 
of the young Miranda, as his son had been. 
" Who is this maid ? " said he, " she seems 
the goddess that has parted us, and brought 
us thus together." "No, sir," answered Fer- 
dinand, smiling to find his father had fallen 
into the same mistake that he had done when 
he first saw Miranda, " she is a mortal, but by 
immortal Providence she is mine ; I chose her 
when I could not ask you, my father, for your 
consent, not thinking you were alive. She is 
the daughter to this Prospero, who is the 
famous duke of Milan, of whose renown I 
have heard so much, but never saw him till 
now : of him I have received a new life : he 
has made himself to me a second father, giving 
me this dear lady." 

" Then I must be her father," said the king : 
" but oh ! how oddly will it sound, that I must 
ask my child forgiveness." 

" No more of that," said Prospero : " let us 
not remember our troubles past, since they so 
happily have ended." And then Prospero 
embraced his brother, and again assured him 
of his forgiveness ; and said that a wise, over- 
ruling Providence had permitted that he 
should be driven from his poor dukedom of 
Milan, that his daughter might inherit the 
crown of Naples, for that by their meeting in 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 



this desert island, it had happened that the 
king's son had loved Miranda. 

These kind words which Prospero spoke, 
meaning to comfort his brother, so filled An- 
tonio with shame and remorse, that he wept 
and was unable to speak : and the kind old 
Gonzalo wept to see this joyful reconciliation, 
and prayed for blessings on the young couple. 

Prospero now told them that their ship was 
safe in the harbour, and the sailors all on board 
her, and that he and his daughter would ac- 
company them home the next morning. ft In 
the mean time," said he, " partake of such re- 
freshments as my poor cave affords ; and for 
your evening's entertainment I will relate the 
history of my life from my first landing in this 
desert island." He then called for Caliban to 
prepare some food, and set the cave in order ; 
and the company were astonished at the un- 
couth form and savage appearance of this ugly 
monster, who (Prospero said) was the only 
attendant he had to wait upon him. 

Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed 
Ariel from his service, to the great joy of that 
lively little spirit ; who, though he had been a 
faithful servant to his master, was always 
longing to enjoy his free liberty, to wander 
uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, under 
green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet- 
smelling flowers. "My quaint Ariel," said 



Prospero to the little sprite when he made him 
free, " I shall miss you ; yet you shall have 
your freedom." " Thank you, my dear master," 
said Ariel ; " but give me leave to attend your 
ship home with prosperous gales, before you 
bid farewell to the assistance of your faithful 
spirit ; and then, master, when I am free, how 
merrily I shall live !" Here Ariel sung this 
pretty song : — 

" Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 
In a cowslip's bell I lie : 
There I couch when owls do cry. 
On the bat's back I do fly- 
After summer, merrily. 
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough." 

Prospero then buried deep in the earth his 
magical books and wand, for he was resolved 
never more to make use of the magic art. And 
having thus overcome his enemies, and being 
reconciled to his brother and the king of 
Naples, nothing now remained to complete his 
happiness, but to revisit his native land, to 
take possession of his dukedom, and to witness 
the happy nuptials of his daughter Miranda 
and Prince Ferdinand, which the king said 
should be instantly celebrated with great 
splendour on their return to Naples. At which 
place, under the safe convoy of the spirit Ariel, 
they after a pleasant voyage soon arrived. 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 



There was a law in the city of Athens, 
which gave to its citizens the power of com- 
pelling their daughters to marry whomsoever 
they pleased : for upon a daughter's refus- 
ing to marry the man her father had chosen 
to be her husband, the father was empowered 
by this law to cause her to be put to death ; 
but as fathers do not often desire the death 
of their own daughters, even though they do 
happen to prove a little refractory, this law was 
seldom or never put in execution, though 
perhaps the young ladies of that city were 
not unfrequently threatened by their parents 
with the terrors of it. 

There was one instance however of an old 
man whose name was Egeus, who actually did 
come before Theseus (at that time the reigning 
duke of Athens), to complain that his daughter 
Hermia, whom he had commanded to marry 
Demetrius, a young man of a noble Athenian 
family, refused to obey him, because she loved 
another young Athenian, named Lysander. 
Egeus demanded justice of Theseus,and desired 
that this cruel law might be put in force 
against his daughter. 

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobe- 



dience, that Demetrius had formerly professed 
love for her dear friend Helena, and that 
Helena loved Demetrius to distraction ; but 
this honourable reason, which Hermia gave for 
not obeying her father's command, moved not 
the stern Egeus. 

Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, 
had no poAver to alter the laws of his country ; 
therefore he could only give Hermia four days 
to consider of it : and at the end of that time, 
if she still refused to marry Demetrius, she was 
to be put to death. 

When Hermia was dismissed from the 
presence of the duke, she went to her lover 
Lysander, and told him the peril she was in, 
and that she must either give up him and 
marry Demetrius, or lose her life in four days. 

Lysander was in great affliction at hearing 
these evil tidings ; but recollecting that he had 
an aunt who lived at some distance from 
Athens, and that at the place where she lived 
the cruel law could not be put in force against 
Hermia (this law not extending beyond the 
boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia, 
that she should steal out of her father's house 
that night, and go with him to his aunt's house, 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



where he would marry her. " I will meet you," 
said Lysander, " in the wood a few miles with- 
out the city ; in that delightful wood where 
we have so often walked with Helena in the 
pleasant month of May." 

To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed ; 
and she told no one of her intended flight but 
her friend Helena. Helena (as maidens will 
do foolish things for love) very ungenerously 
resolved to go and tell this to Demetrius, 
though she could hope no benefit from betray- 
ing her friend's secret, but the poor pleasure of 
following her faithless lover to the wood ; for 
she well knew that Demetrius would go thither 
in pursuit of Hermia. 

The wood in which Lysander and Hermia 
proposed to meet, was the favourite haunt of 
those little beings known by the name of 
Fairies. 

Oberon the king, and Titania the queen, of 
the Fairies, with all their tiny train of followers, 
in this wood held their midnight revels. 

Between this little king and queen of sprites 
there happened at this time a sad disagreement: 
they never met by moonlight in the shady 
walks of this pleasant wood, but they were 
quarrelling, till all their fairy elves would 
creep into acorn-cups and hide themselves for 
fear. 

The cause of this unhappy disagreement 
was Titania's refusing to give Oberon a little 
changeling boy, whose mother had been 
Titania's friend ; and upon her death the fairy 
queen stole the child from its nurse, and brought 
him up in the woods. 

The night on which the lovers were to meet 
in this wood, as Titania was walking with some 
of her maids of honour, she met Oberon 
attended by his train of fairy courtiers. 

" 111 met by moonlight, proud Titania," said 
the fairy king. The queen replied, "What, 
jealous Oberon, is it you ? Fairies, skip hence ; 
I have forsworn his company." " Tarry, rash 
fairy," said Oberon ; " am not I thy lord ? 
Why does Titania cross her Oberon ? Give me 
your little changeling boy to be my page." 

" Set your heart at rest," answered the 
queen ; " your whole fairy kingdom buys not 
the boy of me ." She then left her lord in great 
anger. 

" Well, go your way," said Oberon : " before 
the morning dawns I will torment you for this 
injury." 

Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite 
and privy councillor. 

Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin 
Goodfellow) was a shrewd and knavish sprite 
that used to play comical pranks in the neigh- 
bouring villages ; sometimes getting into the 
dairies and skimming the milk, sometimes 
plunging his light and airy form into the butter- 
churn, and while he was dancing his fantastic 
shape in the churn, in vain the dairy-maid 
would labour to change her cream into butter : 



nor had the village swains any better success ; 
whenever Puck chose to play his freaks in the 
brewing-copper, the ale was sure to be spoiled. 
When a few good neighbours were met to 
drink some comfortable ale together, Puck 
would jump into the bowl of ale in the likeness 
•of a roasted crab, and when some old goody 
was going to drink he would bob against* her 
lips, and spill the ale over her withered chin ; 
and presently after, when the same old dame 
was gravely seating herself to tell her neigh- 
bours a sad and melancholy story, Puck would 
slip her three-legged stool from under her, 
and down toppled the poor old woman, and 
then the old gossips would hold their sides and 
laugh at her, and swear they never wasted a 
merrier hour. 

" Come hither, Puck," said Oberon to this 
little merry wanderer of the night, " fetch me 
the flower which maids call Love in idleness; 
the juice of that little purple flower laid on the 
eyelids of those who sleep, will make them, 
when they awake, dote on the first thing they 
see. Some of the juice of that flower I will 
drop on the eyelids of my Titania, when she is 
asleep ; and the first thing she looks upon when 
she opens her eyes, she will fall in love with, 
even though it be a lion, or a bear, a meddling 
monkey, or a busy ape : and before I will take 
this charm from off her sight, which I can do 
with another charm I know of, I will make her 
give me that boy to be my page." 

Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was 
highly diverted with this intended frolic of his 
master, and ran to seek the flower ; and while 
Oberon was waiting the return of Puck, he 
observed Demetrius and Helena enter the 
wood ; he overheard Demetrius reproaching 
Helena for following him, and after many 
unkind words on his part, and gentle expostu- 
lations from Helena, reminding him of his 
former love and professions of true faith to 
her, he left her (as he said) to the mercy of the 
wild beasts, and she ran after him as swiftly as 
she could. 

The fairy king, who was always friendly to 
true lovers, felt great compassion for Helena • 
and perhaps, as Lysander said they used to 
walk by moonlight in this pleasant wood, 
Oberon might have seen Helena in those happy 
times when she was beloved by Demetrius. 
However that might be, when Puck returned 
with the little purple flower, Oberon said to 
his favourite, " Take a part of this flower ; 
there has been a sweet Athenian lady here who 
is in love with a disdainful youth ; if you find 
him sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in 
his eyes, but contrive to do it when she is near 
him, that the first thing he sees when he 
aAvakes may be this despised lady. You will 
know the man by the Athenian garments 
which he wears." Puck promised to manage 
this matter very dextrously ; and then Oberon 
went, unperceived by Titania, to her bower, 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 



where she was preparing to go tp rest. Her 
fairy bower was a bank, where grew wild 
thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets, under a 
canopy of woodbine, musk-roses, and eglantine. 
There Titania always slept some part of the 
night ; her coverlet the enamelled skin of a 
snake, which, though a small mantle, was wide 
enough to wrap a fairy in. 

He found Titania giving orders to her fairies 
how they were to employ themselves while she 
slept. " Some of you," said her majesty, 
"must kill cankers in the musk-rose buds, 
and some wage war with the bats for their 
leathern wings, to make my small elves coats ; 
and some of you keep watch that the clamorous 
owl, that nightly hoots, come not near me : but 
first sing me to sleep." Then they began to 
sing this song : 

" You spotted snakes with double tongue, 
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; 
Newts and blind-worms do no wrong, 
Come not near our Fairy Queen. 
Philomel, with melody, 
Sing in your sweet lullaby, 
Lulla, lulla, lullaby ; lulla, lulla, lullaby : 
Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, 
Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
So good night with lullaby." 

"When the fairies had sung their queen 
asleep with this pretty lullaby, they left her 
to perform the important services she had 
enjoined them. Oberon then softly drew near 
his Titania, and dropped some of the love-juice 
on her eyelids, saying, — 

" What thou seest when thou dost wake, 
Do it for thy true love take." 

But to return to Hermia, who made her 
escape out of her father's house that night, to 
avoid the death she was doomed to for refusing 
to marry Demetrius. "When she entered the 
wood, she found her dear Lysander waiting 
for her, to conduct her to his aunt's house; 
but before they had passed half through 
the wood, Hermia was so much fatigued, that 
Lysander, who was very careful of this dear 
lady, who had proved her affection for him 
even by hazarding her life for his sake, per- 
suaded her to rest till morning on a bank of 
soft moss : and, lying down himself on the 
ground at some little distance, they soon fell 
fast asleep. Here they were found by Puck, 
who seeing a handsome young man asleep, and 
perceiving that his clothes were made in the 
Athenian fashion, and that a pretty lady was 
sleeping near him, concluded that this must 
be the Athenian maid and her disdainful lover, 
whom Oberon had sent him to seek ; and he 
naturally enough conjectured that, as they 
were alone together, she must be the first 
thing he would see when he awoke : so with- 
out more ado, he proceeded to pour some of 
the juice of the little purple flower into his 
eyes. But it so fell out that Helena came that 
way, and, instead of Hermia, was the first 



object Lysander beheld when he opened his 
eyes ; and, strange to relate ! so powerful was 
the love-charm, all his love for Hermia 
vanished away, and Lysander fell in love with 
Helena. 

Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, 
the blunder Puck committed would have been 
of no consequence, for he could not love that 
faithful lady too well ; but for poor Lysander 
to be forced by a fairy love-charm to forget 
his own true Hermia, and to run after another 
lady, and leave Hermia asleep quite alone in a 
wood at midnight, was a sad chance indeed. 

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as 
has been before related, endeavoured to keep 
pace with Demetrius when he ran away so 
rudely from her ; but she could not continue 
this unequal race long, men being always 
better runners in a long race than ladies. 
Helena soon lost sight of Demetrius ; and as 
she was wandering about, dejected and forlorn, 
she arrived at the place where Lysander was 
sleeping. " Ah ! " said she, " this is Lysander 
lying on the ground : is he dead or asleep?" 
Then gently touching him, she said, " Good sir, 
if you are alive, awake." Upon this Lysander 
opened his eyes, and (the love-charm beginning 
to work) immediately addressed her in terms 
of extravagant love and admiration ; telling 
her, she as much excelled Hermia in beauty 
as a dove does a raven, and that he would run 
through fire for her sweet sake ; and many 
more such lover-like speeches. Helena know- 
ing Lysander was her friend Hermia's lover, 
and that he was solemnly engaged to marry 
her, was in the utmost rage when she heard 
herself addressed in this manner ; for she 
thought (as well she might) that Lysander was 
making a jest of her. " Oh !" said she, " why 
was I born to be mocked and scorned by 
every one ? Is it not enough, is it not enough, 
young man, that I can never get a sweet look 
or a kind word from Demetrius ; but you, sir, 
must pretend, in this disdainful manner, to 
court me ? I thought, Lysander, you were a 
lord of more true gentleness." Saying these 
words in great anger, she ran away ; and 
Lysander followed her, quite forgetful of his 
own Hermia, who was still asleep. 

When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright 
at finding herself alone. She wandered about 
the wood not knowing what was become of 
Lysander, or which way to go to seek for him. 
In the mean time Demetrius, not being able to 
find Hermia and his rival Lysander, and 
fatigued with his fruitless search, was observed 
by Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had learnt, by 
some questions he had asked Puck, that he 
had applied the love-charm to the wrong 
person's eyes ; and now, having found the 
person first intended, he touched the eyelids 
of the sleeping Demetrius with the love-juice, 
and he instantly awoke ; and the first thing he 
saw being Helena, he, as Lysander had done 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



before, began to address love-speeches to her : 
and just at that moment Lysander, followed by 
Hermia, (for, through Puck's unlucky mistake, 
it was now become Hermia's turn to run after 
her lover,) made his appearance ; and then 
Lysander and Demetrius, both speaking 
together, made love to Helena, they being 
each one under the influence of the same 
potent charm. 

The astonished Helena thought that Deme- 
trius, Lysander, and her once dear friend 
Hermia, were all in a plot together to make a 
jest of her. 

Hermia was as much surprised as Helena : 
she knew not why Lysander and Demetrius, 
who both before loved her, were now become 
the lovers of Helena ; and to Hermia the 
matter seemed to be no jest. 

The ladies, who before had always been 
the dearest of friends, now fell to high words 
together. 

" Unkind Hermia," said Helena, " it is you 
have set Lysander on, to vex me with mock 
praises : and your other lover, Demetrius, 
who used almost to spurn me with his foot, 
have you not bid him call me goddess, nymph, 
rare, precious, and celestial ? He would not 
speak thus to me whom he hates, if you did 
not set him on to make a jest of me. Unkind 
Hermia ! to join with men in scorning your 
poor friend. Have you forgot our school-day 
friendship ? How often, Hermia, have we two, 
sitting on one cushion, both singing one song, 
with our needles working the same flower, 
both on the same sampler wrought ; growing 
up together in fashion of a double cherry, 
scarcely seeming parted ? Hermia, it is not 
friendly in you, it is not maidenly, to join with 
men in scorning your poor friend." 

" I am amazed at your passionate words," 
said Hermia : " I scorn you not ; it seems you 
scorn me." 

" Ay, do !" returned Helena, " persevere ; 
counterfeit serious looks, and make mouths 
at me when I turn my back ; then wink at 
each other, and hold the sweet jest up. If you 
had any pity, grace, or manners, you would not 
use me thus." 

"While Helena and Hermia were speaking 
these angry words to each other, Demetrius 
and Lysander left them, to fight together in 
the wood for the love of Helena. 

When they found the gentlemen had left 
them, they departed, and once more wandered 
weary in the wood in search of their lovers. 

As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, 
who with little Puck had been listening to 
their quarrels, said to him, " This is your neg- 
ligence, Puck ; or did you do this wilfully ? " 
" Believe me, king of shadows," answered 
Puck, " it was a mistake : did not you tell me 
I should know the man by his Athenian gar- 
ments ? However, I am not sorry this has hap- 
pened, for I think their jangling makes excel- 



lent sport." " You heard," said Oberon, " that 
Demetrius and Lysander are gone to seek a 
convenient place to fight in. I command you 
to overhang the night with a thick fog, and 
lead these quarrelsome lovers so astray in the 
dark, that they shall not be able to find each 
other. Counterfeit each of their voices to the 
other, and with bitter taunts provoke them to 
follow you, while they think it is their rival's 
tongue they hear. See you do this, till they 
are so weary they can go no farther ; and when 
you find they are asleep, drop the juice of this 
other flower into Lysander's eyes, and when 
he awakes he will forget his new love for 
Helena, and return to his old passion for Her- 
mia ; and then the two fair ladies may each 
one be happy with the man she loves, and they 
will think all that has passed a vexatious dream. 
About this quickly, Puck ; and I will go and 
see what sweet love my Titania has found." 

Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon, see- 
ing a clown near her, who had lost his way in 
the wood, and was likewise asleep — "This 
fellow," said he, " shall be my Titania's true- 
love ; " and clapping an ass's head over the 
clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it 
had grown upon his own shoulders. Though 
Oberon fixed the ass's head on very gently, it 
awakened him, and rising up, unconscious of 
what Oberon had done to him, he went towards 
the bower where the fairy queen slept. 

" Ah ! what angel is that I see ? " said 
Titania, opening her eyes, and the juice of the 
little purple flower beginning to take effect ; 
" are you as wise as you are beautiful % '* 

" Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, "if 
I have wit enough to find the way out of this 
wood, I have enough to serve my turn." 

" Out of the wood do not desire to go," said 
the enamoured queen. " I am a spirit of no 
common rate. I love you. Go with me^and 
I will give you fairies to attend upon you. 

She then called four of her fairies ; their 
names were, Pease-blossom, Cobweb, Moth, 
and Mustard-seed. 

" Attend," said the queen, " upon this sweet 
gentleman ; hop in his walks, and gambol in 
his sight ; feed him with grapes and apricots, 
and steal for him the honey-bags from the 
bees. Come sit with me," said she to the 
clown, " and let me play with your amiable 
hairy cheeks, my beautiful ass ; and kiss your 
fair large ears, my gentle joy ! " 

" Where is Pease-blossom ? " said the ass- 
headed clown, not much regarding the fairy 
queen's courtship, but very proud of his new 
attendants. 

" Here, sir," said little Pease-blossom. 

" Scratch my head," said the clown. " Where 
is Cobweb?" 

" Here, sir," said Cobweb. 

" Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, 
" kill me the red humble-bee on the top of 
that thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cobweb, 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 



9 



bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself 
too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb, and take 
care the honey-bag break not : I should be 
sorry to have you overflown with a honey-bag. 
Where is Mustard-seed f 

" Here, sir," said Mustard-seed ; " what is 
your will ? " 

" Nothing, " said the clown, " good Mr. 
Mustard-seed, but to help Mr. Pease-blossom 
to scratch : I must go to a barber's, Mr. 
Mustard-seed, for methinks I am marvellous 
hairy about the face." 

" My sweet love," said the queen, "what will 
you have to eat ? I have a venturous fairy 
shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch you 
some new nuts." 

" I had rather have a handful of dried pease," 
said the clown, who with his ass's head had got 
an ass's appetite. " But, I pray, let none of 
your people disturb me, for I have a mind to 
sleep." 

" Sleep, then," said the queen, "and I will 
wind you in my arms. O how I love you ! 
how I dote upon you !" 

When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping 
in the arms of his queen, he advanced within 
her sight, and reproached her with having 
lavished her favours upon an ass. 

This she could not deny, as the clown was 
then sleeping within her arms, with his ass's 
head crowned by her with flowers. 

When Oberon had teased her for some time, 
he again demanded the changeling boy ; which 
she, ashamed of being discovered by her lord 
with her new favourite, did not dare to refuse 
him. 

Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy 
he had so long wished for to be his page, took 
pity on the disgraceful situation into which, 
by his merry contrivance, he had brought his 
Titania, and threw some of the juice of the 
other flower into her eyes ; and the fairy 
queen immediately recovered her senses, and 
wondered at her late dotage, saying how she 
now loathed the sight of the strange mon- 
ster. 

Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off 
the clown, and left him to finish his nap with 
his own fool's head upon his shoulders. 

Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly 
reconciled, he related to her the history of 
the lovers, and their midnight quarrels, and 
she agreed to go with him, and see the end of 
their adventures. 

The fairy king and queen found the lovers 
and their fair ladies, at no great distance from 
each other sleeping on a grass-plot ; for Puck, 
to make amends for his former mistake, had 
contrived, with the utmost diligence, to bring 
them all to the same spot, unknown to each 
other ; and he had carefully removed the 



charm from off the eyes of Lysander with the 
antidote the fairy king gave to him. 

Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost 
Lysander asleep so near her, was looking at 
him, and wondering at his strange inconstancy. 
Lysander presently opening his eyes, and see- 
ing his dear Hermia, recovered his reason, 
which the fairy-charm had before clouded, 
and with his reason, his love for Hermia ; and 
they began to talk over the adventures of the 
night, doubting if these things had really hap- 
pened, or if they had both been dreaming the 
same bewildering dream. 

Helena and Demetrius were by this time 
awake ; and a sweet sleep having quieted 
Helena's disturbed and angry spirits, she lis- 
tened with delight to the professions of love 
which Demetrius still made to her, and which, 
to her surprise as well as pleasure, she began to 
perceive were sincere. 

These fair night-wandering ladies, now no 
longer rivals, became once more true friends ; 
all the unkind words which had passed were 
forgiven, and they calmly consulted together 
what was best to be done in their present situ- 
ation. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius 
had given up his pretensions to Hermia, he 
should endeavour to prevail upon her father to 
revoke the cruel sentence of death which had 
been passed against her. Demetrius was pre- 
paring to return to Athens for this friendly 
purpose, when they were surprised with the 
sight of Egeus, Hermia's father, who came to 
the wood in pursuit of his runaway daughter. 

When Egeus understood that Demetrius 
would not now marry his daughter, he no 
longer opposed her marriage with Lysander, 
but gave his consent that they should be 
wedded on the fourth day from that time, 
being the same day on which Hermia had 
been condemned to lose her life ; and on that 
same day Helena joyfully agreed to marry her 
beloved and now faithful Demetrius. 

The fairy king and queen, who were invisi- 
ble spectators of this reconciliation, and now 
saw the happy ending of the lovers' history 
brought about through the good offices of 
Oberon, received so much pleasure, that these 
kind spirits resolved to celebrate the approach- 
ing nuptials with sports and revels throughout 
their fairy kingdom. 

And now, if any are offended with this story 
of fairies and their pranks, as judging it incre- 
dible and strange, they have only to think that 
they have been asleep and dreaming, and that 
all these adventures were visions which they 
saw in their sleep : and I hope none of my 
readers will be so unreasonable as to be 
offended with a pretty harmless Midsummer 
Night's Dream. 



10 



TALES FROM SIXAKSPEARE. 



THE WINTER'S TALE. 



Leontes, king of Sicily, and his queen, the 
beautiful and virtuous Hermione, once lived 
in the greatest harmony together. So happy 
was Leontes in the love of this excellent lady, 
that he had no wish ungratified, except that 
he sometimes desired to see again, and to pre- 
sent to his queen, his old companion and 
school-fellow, Polixenes, king of Bohemia. 
Leontes and Polixeues were brought up to- 
gether from their infancy ; but being by the 
death of their fathers called to reign over their 
respective kingdoms, they had not met for 
many years, though they frequently inter- 
changed gifts, letters, and loving embassies. 

A t length, after repeated invitations, Polix- 
enes came from Bohemia to the Sicilian court, 
to make his friend Leontes a visit. 

At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure 
to Leontes. He recommended the friend of 
his youth to the queen's particular attention, 
and seemed in the presence of his dear friend 
and old companion to have his felicity quite com- 
pleted. They talked over old times; their school- 
days and their youthful pranks were remem- 
bered and recounted to Hermione, who always 
took a cheerful part in these conversations. 

When, after a long stay, Polixenes was pre- 
paring to depart, Hermione, at the desire of 
her husband, joined her entreaties to his that 
Polixenes would prolong his visit. 

And now began this good queen's sorrow ; 
for Polixenes, refusing to stay at the request of 
Leontes, was won over by Hermione's gentle 
and persuasive words to put off his departure 
for some weeks longer. Upon this, although 
Leontes had so long known the integrity and 
honourable principles of his friend Polixenes, 
as well as the excellent disposition of his 
virtuous queen, he was seized with an un- 
governable jealousy. Every attention Hermi- 
one showed to Polixenes, though by her 
husband's particular desire, and merely to 
please him, increased the unfortunate king's 
jealousy ; and from being a loving and a true 
friend, and the best and fondest of husbands, 
Leontes became suddenly a savage and inhuman 
monster. Sending for Camillo, one of the 
lords of his court, and telling him of the sus- 
picion he entertained, he commanded him to 
poison Polixenes. 

Camillo was a good man ; and he, well 
knowing that the jealousy of Leontes had not 
the slightest foundation in truth, instead of poi- 
soning Polixenes, acquainted him with the king 
his master's orders, and agreed to escape with 



him out of the Sicilian dominions ; and Polix- 
enes, with the assistance of Camillo, arrived 
safe in his own kingdom of Bohemia, where 
Camillo lived from that time in [the king's 
court, and became the chief friend and favour- 
ite of Polixenes. 

The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous 
Leontes still more ; he went to the queen's 
apartment, where the good lady was sitting 
with her little son Mamillus, who was just 
beginning to tell one of his best stories to 
amuse his mother, when the king entered, 
and taking the child away, sent Hermione to 
prison. 

Mamillus, though but a very young child, 
loved his mother tenderly ; and when he saw 
her so dishonoured, and found she was taken 
from him to be put into a prison, he took it 
deeply to heart, and drooped and pined away by 
slow degrees, losing his appetite and his sleep, 
till it was thought his grief would kill him. 

The king, when he had sent his queen to 
prison, commanded Cleomenes and Dion, two 
Sicilian lords, to go to Delphos, there to inquire 
of the oracle at the temple of Apollo if his 
queen had been unfaithful to him. 

When Hermione had been a short time in 
prison, she was brought to bed of a daughter ; 
and the poor lady received much comfort from 
the sight of her pretty baby, and she said to 
it, " My poor little prisoner, I am as innocent 
as you are." 

Hermione had a kind friend in the noble- 
spirited Paulina, who was the wife of Anti- 
gonus, a Sicilian lord ; and when the lady 
Paulina heard her royal mistress was brought 
to bed, she went to the prison where Hermione 
was confined, and she said to Emilia, a lady 
who attended upon Hermione, "I pray you, 
Emilia, tell the good queen, if her majesty 
dare trust me with her little babe, I will carry 
it to the king, its father ; we do not know how 
he may soften at the sight of his innocent child." 
" Most worthy madam," replied Emilia, " I will 
acquaint the queen with your noble offer ; she 
was wishing to-day that she had any friend 
who would venture to present the child to the 
king." " And tell her," said Paulina, " that I 
will speak boldly to Leontes in her defence." 
" May you be for ever blessed ! " said Emilia, 
" for your kindness to our gracious queen ! " 
Emilia then went to Hermione, who joyfully 
gave up her baby to the care of Paulina, for 
she had feared that no one would dare venture 
to present the child to its father. 



THE WINTER'S TALE. 



Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing 
herself into the king's presence, notwithstand- 
ing her husband, fearing the king's anger, 
endeavoured to prevent her, she laid the babe 
at its father's feet, and Paulina made a noble 
speech to the king in defence of Hermione, 
and she reproached him severely for his inhu- 
manity, and implored him to have mercy on 
his innocent wife and child. But Paulina's spi- 
rited remonstrances only aggravated Leontes's 
displeasure, and he ordered her husband Anti- 
gonus to take her from his presence. 

When Paulina went away, she left the little 
baby at its father's feet, thinking, when he was 
alone with it, he would look upon it, and have 
pity on its helpless innocence. 

The good Paulina was mistaken ; for no 
sooner was she gone than the merciless father 
ordered Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take 
the child, and carry it out to sea, and leave it 
upon some desert shore to perish. 

Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well 
obeyed the orders of Leontes ; for he imme- 
diately carried the child on ship-board, and put 
out to sea, intending to leave it on the first 
desert coast he could find. 

So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt 
of Hermione, that he would not wait for the 
return of Cleomenes and Dion, whom he had 
sent to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphos ; 
but before the queen was recovered from her 
lying-in, and from her grief for the loss of her 
precious baby, he had her brought to a public 
trial before all the lords and nobles of his court. 
And when all the great lords, the judges, and 
all the nobility of the land, were assembled 
together to try Hermione, and that unhappy 
queen was standing as a prisoner before her 
subjects to receive their judgment, Cleomenes 
and Dion entered the assembly, and presented 
to the king the answer of the oracle sealed up ; 
and Leontes commanded the seal to be broken, 
and the words of the oracle to be read aloud, 
and these were the words: — "Hermione is 
innocent, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true 
subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the king 
shall live without an heir if that which is lost 
be not found." The king would give no credit 
to the words of the oracle : he said it was a 
falsehood invented by the queen's friends, and 
he desired the judge to proceed in the trial of 
the queen ; but while Leontes was speaking, 
a man entered and told him that the prince 
Mamillus, hearing his mother was to be tried 
for life, struck with grief and shame, had sud- 
denly died. 

Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this 
dear affectionate child, who had lost his life in 
sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted ; and 
Leontes, pierced to the heart by the news, 
began to feel pity for his unhappy queen, and 
he ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were 
her attendants, to take her away, and use 
means for her recovery. Paulina soon re- 



turned, and told the king that Hermione was 
dead. 

When Leontes heard that the queen was 
dead, he repented of his cruelty to her ; and 
now that he thought his ill usage had broken 
Hermione's heart, he believed her innocent ; 
and he now thought the words of the oracle 
were true, as he knew " if that which was lost 
was not found," which he concluded was his 
young daughter, he should be without an heir, 
the young prince Mamillus being dead, and he 
would give his kingdom now to recover his 
lost daughter ; and Leontes gave himself up to 
remorse, and passed many years in mournful 
thoughts and repentant grief. 

The ship in which Antigonus carried the 
infant princess out to sea was driven by a storm 
upon the coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom 
of the good king Polixenes. Here Antigonus 
landed, and here he left the little baby. 

Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell 
Leontes where he had left his daughter, for, 
as he was going back to the ship, a bear came 
out of the woods, and tore him to pieces ; a 
just punishment on him for obeying the wicked 
order of Leontes. 

The child was dressed in rich clothes and 
jewels ; for Hermione had made it very fine 
when she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus 
had pinned a paper to its mantle, with the 
name of Perdita written thereon, and words 
obscurely intimating its high birth and unto- 
ward fate. 

This poor deserted baby was found by a 
shepherd. He was a humane man, and so he 
carried the little Perdita home to his wife, who 
nursed it tenderly ; but poverty tempted the 
shepherd to conceal the rich prize he had found : 
therefore he left that part of the country, that 
no one might know where he got his riches, 
and with part of Perdita's jewels he bought 
herds of sheep, and became a wealthy shep- 
herd. He brought up Perdita as his own child, 
and she knew not she was any other than a 
shepherd's daughter. 

The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden ; 
and though she had no better education than 
that of a shepherd's daughter, yet so did the 
natural graces she inherited from her royal 
mother shine forth in her untutored mind, 
that no one from her behaviour would have 
known she had not been brought up in her 
father's court. 

Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only 
son, whose name was Florizel. As this young 
prince was hunting near the shepherd's dwell- 
ing, he saw the old man's supposed daughter ; 
and the beauty, modesty, and queen-like de- 
portment of Perdita caused him instantly to 
fall in love with her. He soon, under the name 
of Doricles, and in the disguise of a private 
gentleman, became a constant visiter at the 
old shepherd's house. 

Florizel 's frequent absences from court 



12 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



alarmed Polixenes ; and setting people to 
watch his son, he discovered his love for the 
shepherd's fair daughter. 

Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faith- 
ful Camillo, who had preserved his life from 
the fury of Leontes, and desired that he would 
accompany him to the house of the shepherd, 
the supposed father of Perdita. 

Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, 
arrived at the old shepherd's dwelling, while 
they were celebrating the feast of sheep-shear- 
ing ; and though they were strangers, yet at 
the sheep-shearing every guest being made 
welcome, they were invited to walk in, and 
join in the general festivity. 

Nothing but mirth and jollity was going 
forward. Tables were spread, and great pre- 
parations were making for the rustic feast. 
Some lads and lasses were dancing on the 
green before the house, while others of the 
young men were buying ribands, gloves, and 
such toys, of a pedlar at the door. 

While this busy scene was going forward, 
Florizel and Perdita sat quietly in a retired 
corner, seemingly more pleased with the con- 
versation of each other, than desirous of en- 
gaging in the sports and silly amusements of 
those around them. 

The king was so disguised that it was impos- 
sible his son could know him ; he therefore 
advanced near enough to hear the conversa- 
tion. The simple yet elegant manner in which 
Perdita conversed with his son did not a little 
surprise Polixenes. He said to Camillo, "This 
is the prettiest low-born lass I ever saw ; 
nothing she does or says but looks like some- 
thing greater than herself, too noble for this 
place." 

Camillo replied, "Indeed she is the very 
queen of curds and cream." 

" Pray, my good friend," said the king to the 
old shepherd, " what fair swain is that talking 
with your daughter ?" "They call him Doricles," 
replied the shepherd : " He says he loves my 
daughter ; and, to speak truth, there is not a 
kiss to choose which loves the other best. If 
young Doricles can get her, she shall bring 
him that he little dreams of," meaning the 
remainder of Perdita's jewels ; which, after 
he had bought herds of sheep with part of 
them, he had carefully hoarded up for her 
marriage portion. 

Polixenes then addressed his son. "How 
now, young man ! " said he ; " your heart 
seems full of something that takes off your 
mind from feasting. When I was young, I 
used to load my love with presents ; but you 
have let the pedlar go, and have bought your 
lass no toy." 

The young prince, who little thought he was 
talking to the king his father, replied, " Old 
sir, she prizes not such trifles ; the gifts which 
Perdita expects from me are locked up in my 
heart." Then turning to Perdita, he said to 



her, " O hear me, Perdita, before this ancient 
gentleman, who it seems was once himself a 
lover ; he shall hear what I profess." Florizel 
then called upon the old stranger to be a wit- 
ness to a solemn promise of marriage which 
he made to Perdita, saying to Polixenes, " I 
pray you mark our contract." 

"Mark your divorce, young sir," said the 
king, discovering himself. Polixenes then re- 
proached his son for daring to contract himself 
to this low-born maiden, calling Perdita " shep- 
herd's-brat, sheep-hook," and other disrespect- 
ful names ; and threatening, if ever she suf- 
fered his son to see her again, he would put 
her, and the old shepherd her father, to a cruel 
death. 

The king then left them in great wrath, 
and ordered Camillo to follow him with prince 
Florizel. 

When the king had departed, Perdita, whose 
royal nature was roused by Polixenes' re- 
proaches, said, " Though we are all undone, I 
was not much afraid ; and once or twice I 
was about to speak, and tell him plainly that 
the self-same sun that shines upon his palace 
hides not his face from our cottage, but looks 
on both alike." Then sorrowfully she said, 
" But now I am awakened from this dream, I 
will queen it no farther. Leave me, sir : I 
will go milk my ewes, and weep." 

The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with 
the spirit and propriety of Perdita's behaviour ; 
and perceiving that the young prince was too 
deeply in love to give up his mistress at the 
command of his royal father, he thought of a 
way to befriend the lovers, and at the same 
time to execute a favourite scheme he had in 
his mind. 

Camillo had long known that Leontes, the 
king of Sicily, was become a true penitent ; 
and though Camillo was now the favoured 
friend of king Polixenes, he could not help 
wishing once more to see his late royal master 
and his native home. He therefore proposed 
to Florizel and Perdita that they should 
accompany him to the Sicilian court, where 
he would engage Leontes should protect them, 
till through his mediation they could obtain 
pardon from Polixenes, and his consent to 
their marriage. 

To this proposal they joyfully agreed ; and 
Camillo, who conducted everything relative to 
their flight, allowed the old shepherd to go 
along with them. 

The shepherd took with him the remainder 
of Perdita's jewels, her baby- clothes, and the 
paper which he had found pinned to her 
mantle. 

After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and 
Perdita, Camillo and the old shepherd, arrived 
in safety at the court of Leontes. Leontes, 
who still mourned his dead Hermione and his 
lost child, received Camillo with great kind- 
ness, and gave a cordial welcome to prince 



THE WINTER'S TALE. 



13 



Florizel. But Perdita, whom Florizel intro- 
duced as his princess, seemed to engross all 
Leontes' attention. Perceiving a resemblance 
between her and his dead queen Hermione, 
his grief broke out afresh, and he said, such a 
lovely creature might his own daughter have 
been, if he had not so cruelly destroyed her. 
" And then, too," said he to Florizel, " I lost 
the society and friendship of your brave father, 
whom I now desire more than my life once 
again to look upon." 

When the old shepherd heard how much 
notice the king had taken of Perdita, and that 
he had lost a daughter, who was exposed in 
infancy, he fell to comparing the time when he 
found the little Perdita with the manner of its 
exposure, the jewels and other tokens of its 
high birth ; from all which it was impossible 
for him not to conclude that Perdita and the 
king's lost daughter were the same. 

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful 
Paulina, were present when the old shepherd 
related to the king the manner in which he 
had found the child, and also the circumstance 
of Antigonus's death, he having seen the bear 
seize upon him. He showed the rich mantle 
in which Paulina remembered Hermione had 
wrapped the child ; and he produced a jewel 
which she remembered Hermionehad tied about 
Perdita's neck, and he gave up the paper, which 
Paulina knew to be the writing of her husband ; 
it could not be doubted that Perdita was 
Leontes' own daughter. But oh ! the noble 
struggles of Paulina, between sorrow for her 
husband's death, and joy that the oracle was 
fulfilled, in the king's heir, his long lost daugh- 
ter, being found. When Leontes heard that 
Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow 
that he felt that Hermione was not living to 
behold her child, made him that he could say 
nothing for a long time, but, " O thy mother, 
thy mother !" 

Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful 
scene, with saying to Leontes, that she had a 
statue, newly finished by that rare Italian 
master, Julio Romano, which was such a perfect 
resemblance of the queen, that would his 
majesty be pleased to go to her house and look 
upon it, he would almost be ready to think it 
was Hermione herself. Thither then they all 
went ; the king anxious to see the semblance 
of his Hermione, and Perdita longing to behold 
what the mother she never saw did look like. 

When Paulina drew back the curtain which 
concealed this famous statue, so perfectly did 
it resemble Hermione, that all the king's sorrow 
was renewed at the sight ; for a long time he 
had no power to speak or move. 

" I like your silence, my liege," said Paulina, 
" it the more shows your wonder. Is not this 
statue very like your queen ?" 

At length the king said, " O, thus she stood, 
even with such majesty, when I first wooed 
her. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so 



aged as this statue looks." Paulina replied, 
" So much the more the carver's excellence, 
who has made the statue as Hermione would 
have looked had she been living now. But let 
me draw the curtain, sire, lest presently you 
think it moves." 

The king then said, "Do not draw the curtain ! 
Would I were dead ! See, Camillo, would you 
not think it breathed ? Her eye seems to have 
motion in it." " I must draw the curtain, my 
liege," said Paulina. " You are so transported, 
you will persuade yourself the statue lives." 
" 0, sweet Paulina," said Leontes, " make me 
think so twenty years together ! Still methinks 
there is an air comes from her. What fine 
chisel could ever yet cut breath ? Let no man 
mock me, for I will kiss her." " Good my 
lord, forbear ! " said Paulina. " The ruddiness 
upon her lip is wet ; you will stain your own 
with oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain ?" 
" No, not these twenty years," said Leontes. 

Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, 
and beholding in silent admiration the statue 
of her matchless mother, said now, " And so 
long could I stay here, looking upon my dear 
mother !" 

" Either forbear this transport," said Paulina 
to Leontes, " and let me draw the curtain ; or 
prepare yourself for more amazement. I can 
make the statue move indeed ; ay, and descend 
from off the pedestal, and take you by the 
hand. But then you will think, which I protest 
I am not, that I am assisted by some wicked 
powers." " W^hat you can make her do," said 
the astonished king, " I am content to look 
upon. What you can make her speak, I am 
content to hear ; for it is as easy to make her 
speak as move." 

Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn 
music, which she had prepared for the purpose, 
to strike up ; and to the amazement of all the 
beholders, the statue came down from off the 
pedestal, and threw its arms around Leontes' 
neck. The statue then began to speak, praying 
for blessings on her husband, and on her child, 
the newly-found Perdita. 

No wonder that the statue hung upon Le- 
ontes' neck, and blessed her husband and her 
child. No wonder ; for the statue was indeed 
Hermione herself, the real, the living queen. 

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the 
death of Hermione, thinking that the only 
means to preserve her royal mistress's life ; 
and with the good Paulina Hermione had lived 
ever since, never choosing Leontes should 
know she was living, till she heard Perdita 
was found ; for though she had long forgiven 
the injuries which Leontes had done to herself, 
she could not pardon his cruelty to his infant 
daughter. 

His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost 
daughter found, the long-sorrowing Leontes 
could scarcely support the excess of his own 
happiness. 



14 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



Nothing but congratulations and affectionate 
speeches were heard on all sides. Now the 
delighted parents thanked prince Florizel for 
loving their lowly-seeming daughter ; and now 
they blessed the good old shepherd for pre- 
serving their child. Greatly did Camillo and 
Paulina rejoice, that they had lived to see so 
good an end of all their faithful services. 

And as if nothing should be wanting to 
complete this strange and unlooked-for joy, 
king Polixenes himself now entered the 
palace. 

When Polixenes first missed his son and 
Camillo, knowing that Camillo had long Avished 
to return to Sicily, he conjectured he should 
find the fugitives here ; and following them 



with all speed, he happened to arrive just at 
this, the happiest moment of Leontes' life. 

Polixenes took a part in the general joy ; 
he forgave his friend Leontes the unjust jealousy 
he had conceived against him, and they once 
more loved each other with all the warmth of 
their first boyish friendship. And there was 
no fear that Polixenes would now oppose his 
son's marriage with Perdita. She was no 
u sheep-hook " now, but the heiress of the 
crown of Sicily. 

Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the 
long-suffering Hermione rewarded. That ex- 
cellent lady lived many years with her Leontes 
and her Perdita, the happiest of mothers and 
of queens. 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 



There lived in the palace at Messina two 
ladies, whose names were Hero and Beatrice. 
Hero was the daughter, and Beatrice the niece, 
of Leonato, the governor of Messina. 

Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved 
to divert her cousin Hero, who was of a more 
serious disposition, with her sprightly sallies. 
Whatever was going forward was sure to make 
matter of mirth for the light-hearted Beatrice. 

At the time the history of these ladies com- 
mences, some young men of high rank in the 
army, as they were passing through Messina 
on their return from a war that was just ended, 
in which they had distinguished themselves by 
their great bravery, came to visit Leonato. 
Among these were Don Pedro, the prince of 
Arragon, and his friend Claudio, who was a 
lord of Florence ; and with them came the 
wild and witty Benedick, and he was a lord of 
Padua. 

These strangers had been at Messina before, 
and the hospitable governor introduced them 
to his daughter and his niece, as their old 
friends and acquaintance. 

Benedick, the moment he entered the room, 
began a lively conversation with Leonato and 
the prince. Beatrice, who liked not to be left 
out of any discourse, interrupted Benedick with 
saying, " I wonder that you will still be talking, 
sign or Benedick ; nobody marks you." Bene- 
dick was just such another rattle-brain as 
Beatrice, yet he was not pleased at this free 
salutation ; he thought it did not become a 
well-bred lady to be so flippant with her 
tongue ; and he remembered, when he was 
last at Messina, that Beatrice used to select 
him to make her merry jests upon. And as 
there is no one who so little likes to be made a 
jest of as those who are apt to take the same 
liberty themselves, so it was with Benedick 



and Beatrice ; these two sharp wits never* met 
in former times but a perfect war of raillery 
was kept up between them, and they always 
parted mutually displeased with each other. 
Therefore when Beatrice stopped him in the 
middle of his discourse with telling him nobody 
marked what he was saying, Benedick, affecting 
not to have observed before that she was 
present, said, " What, my dear lady Disdain, 
are you yet living ?" And now war broke out 
afresh between them, and a long jangling 
argument ensued, during which Beatrice, al- 
though she knew he had so well approved his 
valour in the late war, said that she would eat all 
he had killed there : and observing the prince 
take delight in Benedick's conversation, she 
called him " the prince's jester." This sarcasm 
sunk deeper into the mind of Benedick than 
all Beatrice had said before. The hint she 
gave him that he was a coward, by saying she 
would eat all he had killed, he did not regard, 
knowing himself to be a brave man ; but there 
is nothing that great wits so much dread as 
the imputation of buffoonery, because the 
charge comes sometimes a little too near the 
truth ; therefore Benedick perfectly hated 
Beatrice when she called him " the prince's 
jester." 

The modest lady Hero was silent before the 
noble guests ; and while Claudio was atten- 
tively observing the improvement which time 
had made in her beauty, and was contemplating 
the exquisite graces of her fine figure (for she 
was an admirable young lady), the prince was 
highly amused with listening to the humorous 
dialogue between Benedick and Beatrice ; and 
he said in a whisper to Leonato, " This is a 
pleasant-spirited young lady. She were an 
excellent wife for Benedick." Leonato replied 
to this suggestion, " O my lord, my lord, if they 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 



15 



were but a week married, they would talk 
themselves mad." But though Leonato thought 
they would make a discordant pair, the prince 
did not give up the idea of matching these two 
keen wits together. 

When the prince returned with Claudio from 
the palace, he found that the marriage he had 
devised between Benedick and Beatrice was 
not the only one projected in that good com- 
pany, for Claudio spoke in such terms of Hero, 
as made the prince guess at what was passing 
in his heart ; and he liked it well, and he said 
to Claudio, " Do you affect Hero?" To this 
question Claudio replied, " O, my lord, when I 
was last at Messina, I looked upon her with a 
soldier's eye, that liked, but had no leisure for 
loving ; but now, in this happy time of peace, 
thoughts of war have left their places vacant 
in my mind, and in their room come thronging 
soft and delicate thoughts, all prompting me 
how fair young Hero is, reminding me that I 
liked her before I went to the wars." Claudio's 
confession of his love for Hero so wrought 
upon the prince that he lost no time in soliciting 
the consent of Leonato to accept of Claudio 
for a son-in-law. Leonato agreed to this pro- 
posal, and the prince found no great difficulty 
in persuading the gentle Hero herself to listen 
to the suit of the noble Claudio, who was a 
lord of rare endowments, and highly accom- 
plished ; and Claudio, assisted by his kind 
prince, soon prevailed upon Leonato to fix an 
early day for the celebration of his marriage 
with Hero. 

Claudio was to wait but a few days before 
he was to be married to his fair lady ; yet he 
complained of the interval being tedious, as 
indeed most young men are impatient, when 
they are waiting for the accomplishment of 
any event they have set their hearts upon : 
the prince therefore, to make the time seem 
short to him, proposed as a kind of merry 
pastime, that they should invent some artful 
scheme to make Benedick and Beatrice fall in 
love with each other. Claudio entered with 
great satisfaction into this whim of the prince, 
and Leonato promised them his assistance, and 
even Hero said she would do any modest office 
to help her cousin to a good husband. 

The device the prince invented was, that 
the gentlemen should make Benedick believe 
that Beatrice was in love with him, and that 
Hero should make Beatrice believe that Bene- 
dick was in love with her. 

The prince, Leonato, and Claudio, began their 
operations first, and watching an opportunity 
when Benedick was quietly seated reading in 
an arbour, the prince and his assistants took 
their station among the trees behind the arbour, 
so near that Benedick could not choose but 
hear all they said ; and after some careless 
talk the prince said, " Come hither, Leonato. 
What was it you told me the other day — that 
your niece Beatrice was in love with signior 



Benedick ? I did never think that lady would 
have loved any man." " No, nor I neither, 
my lord," answered Leonato. " It is most 
wonderful that she should so dote on Benedick, 
whom she in all outward behaviour seemed 
ever to dislike." Claudio confirmed all this, 
with saying that Hero had told him Beatrice 
was so in love with Benedick, that she would 
certainly die of grief, if he could not be brought 
to love her ; which Leonato and Claudio seemed 
to agree was impossible, he having always been 
such a railer against. all fair ladies, and in par- 
ticular against Beatrice. 

The prince affected to hearken to all this 
with great compassion for Beatrice, and he 
said, " It were good that Benedick were told 
of this." " To what end ? " said Claudio ; " he 
would but make sport of it, and torment the 
poor lady worse." " And if he should," said 
the prince, " it were a good deed to hang him ; 
for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady, and 
exceeding wise in everything but in loving 
Benedick." Then the prince motioned to his 
companions that they should walk on, and 
leave Benedick to meditate upon what he had 
overheard. 

Benedick had been listening with great 
eagerness to this conversation ; and he said to 
himself when he heard Beatrice loved him, 
" Is it possible ? Sits the wind in that corner?" 
And when they were gone, he began to reason 
in this manner with himself. " This can be no 
trick ! they were very serious, and they have 
the truth from Hero, and seem to pity the 
lady. Love me ! Why "it must be requited ! 
I did never think to marry. But when I said I 
should die a bachelor, I did not think I should 
live to be married. They say the lady is vir- 
tuous and fair. She is so. And wise in every- 
thing but in loving me. Why that is no great 
argument of her folly. But here comes Bea- 
trice. By this day, she is a fair lady. I do 
spy some marks of love in her." Beatrice now 
approached him, and said with her usual tart- 
ness, " Against my will I am sent to bid you 
come in to dinner." Benedick, who never felt 
himself disposed to speak so politely to her 
before, replied, "Fair Beatrice, I thank you 
for your pains : " and when Beatrice after two 
or three more rude speeches left him, Bene- 
dick thought he observed a concealed meaning 
of kindness under the uncivil words she utter- 
ed, and he said aloud, " If I do not take pity 
on her, I am a villain. If I do not love her, I 
am a Jew. I will go get her picture." 

The gentleman being thus caught in the net 
they had spread for him, it was now Hero's 
turn to play her part with Beatrice ; and for 
this purpose she sent for Ursula and Margaret, 
two gentlewomen who attended upon her, and 
she said to Margaret, " Good Margaret, run to 
the parlour; there you will find my cousin 
Beatrice talking with the prince and Claudio. 
Whisper in her ear, that I and Ursula are 



10 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



walking in the orchard, and that our discourse 
is all of her. Bid her steal into that pleasant 
arbour, where honeysuckles, ripened by the 
sun, like ungrateful minions, forbid the sun to 
enter." This arbour, into which Hero desired 
Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the very same 
pleasant arbour where Benedick had so lately 
been an attentive listener. " I will make her 
come, I warrant, presently," said Margaret. 

Hero then taking Ursula with her into the 
orchard, said to her, " Now, Ursula, when Bea- 
trice comes, we will walk up and down this 
alley, and our talk must be only of Benedick, 
and when I name him, let it be your part to 
praise him more than ever man did merit. 
My talk to you must be how Benedick is in 
love with Beatrice. Now begin ; for look 
where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs close by 
the ground, to hear our conference." They 
then began ; Hero saying, as if in answer to 
something which Ursula had said, " No truly, 
Ursula. She is too disdainful ; her spirits are 
as coy as wild birds of the rock." " But are 
you sure," said Ursula, " that Benedick loves 
Beatrice so entirely ? " Hero replied, " So 
says the prince, and my lord Claudio, and. they 
entreated me to acquaint her with it ; but I 
persuaded them, if they loved Benedick, never 
to let Beatrice know of it." " Certainly," re- 
plied Ursula, " it were not good she knew his 
love, lest she made sport of it." " Why to say 
truth," said Hero, "I never yet saw a man, 
how wise soever, or noble, young, or rarely 
featured, but she would dispraise him." " Sure, 
sure, such carping is not commendable," said 
Ursula. " No," replied Hero, " but who dare 
tell her so ? if I should speak she would mock 
me into air." "O you wrong your cousin," 
said Ursula : " she cannot be so much without 
true judgment, as to refuse so rare a gentleman 
as signior Benedick." " He hath an excellent 
good name," said Hero: "indeed he is the 
first man in Italy, always excepting my dear 
Claudio." And now, Hero giving her attend- 
ant a hint that it was time to change the 
discourse, Ursula said, " And when are you to 
be married, madam ? " Hero then told her, 
that she was to be married to Claudio the next 
day, and desired she would go in with her, and 
look at some new attire, as she wished to con- 
sult with her on what she would wear on the 
morrow. Beatrice, who had been listening 
with breathless eagerness to this dialogue, 
when they went away, exclaimed, " What fire 
is in my ears ? Can this be true ? Farewell, 
contempt, and scorn and maiden pride, adieu ! 
Benedick, love on ! I will requite you, taming 
my wild heart to your loving hand." 

It must have been a pleasant sight to see 
these old enemies converted into new and 
loving friends ; and to behold their first meet- 
ing after being cheated into mutual liking 
by the merry artifice of the good-humoured 
prince. But a sad reverse in the fortunes 



of Hero must now be thought of. The morrow, 
which was to have been her wedding day, 
brought sorrow on the heart of Hero, and her 
good father Leonato. 

The prince had a half-brother, who came 
from the wars along with him to Messina. 
This brother (his name was Don John) was a 
melancholy, discontented man, whose spirits 
seemed to labour in the contriving of villanies. 
He hated the prince his brother, and he hated 
Claudio, because he was the prince's friend, 
and determined to prevent Claudio's marriage 
with Hero, only for the malicious pleasure of 
making Claudio and the prince unhappy ; for 
he knew the prince had set his heart upon this 
marriage, almost as much as Claudio himself : 
and to effect this wicked purpose, he employed 
one Borachio, a man as bad as himself, whom 
he encouraged with the offer of a great reward. 
This Borachio paid his court to Margaret, 
Hero's attendant ; and Don John, knowing 
this, prevailed upon him to make Margaret pro- 
mise to talk with him from her lady's chamber- 
window that night, after Hero was asleep, 
and also to dress herself in Hero's clothes, 
the better to deceive Claudio into the belief 
that it was Hero ; for that was the end he 
meant to compass by this wicked plot. 

Don John then went to the prince and 
Claudio, and told them that Hero was an im- 
prudent lady, and that she talked with men 
from her chamber-window at midnight. Now 
this was the evening before the wedding, and 
he offered to take them that night, where they 
should themselves hear Hero discoursing with 
a man from her window ; and they consented 
to go along with him, and Claudio said, " If I 
see anything to-night why I should not marry 
her, to-morrow in the congregation, where I 
intended to wed her, there will I shame her." 
The prince also said, " And as I assisted you 
to obtain her, I will join with you to disgrace 
her." 

When Don John brought them near Hero's 
chamber that night, they saw Borachio stand- 
ing under the window, and they saw Margaret 
looking out of Hero's window, and heard her 
talking with Borachio ; and Margaret being 
dressed in the same clothes they had seen 
Hero wear, the prince and Claudio believed it 
was the lady Hero herself. 

Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, 
when he had made (as he thought) this dis- 
covery. All his love for the innocent Hero 
was at once converted into hatred, and he 
resolved to expose her in the church, as he 
had said he would, the next day ; and the 
prince agreed to this, thinking no punishment 
could be too severe for the naughty lady, who 
talked with a man from her window the very 
night before she was going to be married to 
the noble Claudio. 

The next day, when they were all met to 
celebrate the marriage, and Claudio and Hero 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 



17 



were standing before the priest, and the priest, 
or friar as he was called, was proceeding to 
pronounce the marriage-ceremony, Claudio, in 
the most passionate language, proclaimed the 
guilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed at 
the strange words he uttered, said meekly, 
" Is my lord well, that he does speak so 
wide ? " 

Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the 
prince, " My lord, why speak not you ? " 
" What should I speak ? " said the prince : 
" I stand dishonoured, that have gone about 
to link my dear friend to an unworthy woman. 
Leonato, upon my honour, myself, my brother, 
and this grieved Claudio, did see and hear her 
last night at midnight talk with a man at her 
chamber- win do w." 

Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, 
said, "This looks not like a nuptial." 

" True, O God ! " replied the heart-struck 
Hero ; and then this hapless lady sunk down 
in a fainting-fit, to all appearance dead. The 
prince and Claudio left the church, without 
staying to see if Hero would recover, or at all 
regarding the distress into which they had 
thrown Leonato. So hard-hearted had their 
anger made them. 

Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to 
recover Hero from her swoon, saying, " How 
does the lady?" "Dead, I thiAk," replied 
Beatrice in great agony, for she loved her 
cousin ; and knowing her virtuous princi- 
ples, she believed nothing of what she had 
heard spoken against her. Not so the poor 
old father ; he believed the story of his child's 
shame, and it was piteous to hear him lament- 
ing over her, as she lay like one dead before 
him, wishing she might never more open her 
eyes. 

But the ancient friar was a wise man, and 
full of observation on human nature, and he 
had attentively marked the lady's countenance 
when she heard herself accused, and noted a 
thousand blushing shames to start into her 
face, and then he saw an angel-like whiteness 
bear away those blushes, and in her eye he 
saw a fire that did belie the error that the 
prince did speak against her maiden truth, 
and he said to the sorrowing father, " Call me 
a fool ; trust not my reading, nor my observa- 
tion ; trust not my age, my reverence, nor my 
calling ; if this sweet lady lie not guiltless here 
under some biting error." 

When Hero recovered from the swoon into 
which she had fallen, the friar said to her, 
" Lady, what man is he you are accused of?" 
Hero replied, " They know that do accuse me ; 
I know of none : " then turning to Leonato, she 
said, " O my father, if you can prove that any 
man has ever conversed with me at hours 
unmeet, or that I yesternight changed words 
with any creature, refuse me, hate me, torture 
me to death." 

" There is," said the friar, " some strange 



misunderstanding in the prince and Claudio ; " 
and then he counselled Leonato, that he should 
report that Hero was dead ; and he said, that 
the death-like swoon in which they had left 
Hero, would make this easy of belief ; and he 
also advised him that he should put on mourn- 
ing, and erect a monument for her, and do all 
rites that appertain to a burial. " What shall 
become of this ? " said Leonato ; " what will 
this do ? " The friar replied, " This report of 
her death shall change slander into pity : that 
is some good, but that is not all the good I 
hope for. When Claudio shall hear she died 
upon hearing his words, the idea of her life 
shall sweetly creep into his imagination. Then 
shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in 
his heart, and wish he had not so accused 
her ; yea, though he thought his accusation 
true." 

Benedick now said, " Leonato, let the friar 
advise you ; and though you know how well 
I love the prince and Claudio, yet on my honour 
I will not reveal this secret to them." 

Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded ; and he 
said sorrowfully, " I am so grieved, that the 
smallest twine may lead me." The kind friar 
then led Leonato and Hero away to comfort 
and console them, and Beatrice and Benedick 
remained alone ; and this was the meeting 
from which their friends, who contrived the 
merry plot against them, expected so much 
diversion ; those friends who were now over- 
whelmed with affliction, and from whose 
minds all thoughts of merriment seemed for 
ever banished. 

Benedick was the first who spoke, and he 
said, " Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this 
while ? " " Yea, and I will weep a while 
longer," said Beatrice. " Surely," said Bene- 
dick, " I do believe your fair cousin is 
wronged." " Ah ! " said Beatrice, " how much 
might that man deserve of me who would 
right her ! " Benedick then said, " Is there 
any way to show such friendship ? I do love 
nothing in the world so well as you : is not 
that strange ? " " It were as possible," said 
Beatrice, " for me to say I loved nothing in 
the world so well as you ; but believe me not, 
and yet I lie not. I confess nothing, nor I 
deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin." 
"By my sword," said Benedick, "you love 
me, and I protest I love you. Come, bid me 
do anything for you." " Kill Claudio," said 
Beatrice. "Ha ! not for the wide world," said 
Benedick : for he loved his friend Claudio, and 
he believed he had been imposed upon. " Is 
not Claudio a villain, that has slandered, 
scorned, and dishonoured my cousin ? " said 
Beatrice : " O that I were a man ! " " Hear 
me, Beatrice ! " said Benedick. But Beatrice 
would hear nothing in Claudio's defence ; and 
she continued to urge on Benedick to revenge 
her cousin's wrongs ; and she said, " Talk 
with a man out of the window ; a proper 
c 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



saying ! Sweet Hero ! she is wronged ; she 
is slandered ; she is undone. O that I were a 
man for Claudio's sake ! or that I had any 
friend, who would be a man for my sake ! but 
valour is melted into courtesies and compli- 
ments. I cannot be a man with wishing, 
therefore I will die a woman with grieving." 
" Tarry, good Beatrice," said Benedick : " by 
this hand, I love you." " Use it for my love 
some other way than swearing by it," said 
Beatrice. " Think you, on your soul, that 
Claudio has wronged Hero ? " asked Benedick. 
" Yea," answered Beatrice ; " as sure as I 
have a thought, or a soul." " Enough," said 
Benedick ; " I am engaged ; I will challenge 
him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave you. 
By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear 
account ! As you hear from me, so think of 
me. Go, comfort your cousin." 

"While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading 
with Benedick, and working his gallant temper 
by the spirit of her angry words, to engage in 
the cause of Hero, and fight even with his 
dear friend Claudio, Leonato was challenging 
the prince aud Claudio to answer with their 
swords the injury they had done his child, who, 
he affirmed, had died for grief. But they 
respected his age and his sorrow, and they 
said, " Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old 
man." And now came Benedick, and he also 
challenged Claudio to answer with his sword 
the injury he had done to Hero : and Claudio 
and the prince said to each other, " Beatrice 
has set him on to do this." Claudio neverthe- 
less must have accepted this challenge of 
Benedick, had not the justice of Heaven at 
the moment brought to pass a better proof of 
the innocence of Hero than the uncertain 
fortune of a duel. 

While the prince and Claudio were yet 
talking of the challenge of Benedick, a magis- 
trate brought Borachio as a prisoner before 
the prince. Borachio had been overheard 
talking with one of his companions of the 
mischief he had been employed by Don John 
to do. 

Borachio made a full confession to the prince 
in Claudio's hearing, that it was Margaret 
dressed in her lady's clothes that he had talked 
with from the window, whom they had mis- 
taken for the lady Hero herself ; and no doubt 
continued on the minds of Claudio and the 
prince of the innocence of Hero. If a sus- 
picion had remained it must have been removed 
by the flight of Don John, who finding his 
villanies were detected, fled from Messina, to 
avoid the just anger of his brother. 

The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved, 
when he found he had falsely accused Hero, 
who, he thought, died upon hearing his cruel 
words ; and the memory of his beloved Hero's 
image came over him, in the rare semblance 
that he loved it first : and the prince asking 
him if what he heard did not run like iron 



through his soul, he answered that he felt 
as if he had taken poison while Borachio was 
speaking. 

And the repentant Claudio implored forgive- 
ness of the old man Leonato for the injury 
he had done his child ; and promised that 
whatever penance Leonato would lay upon 
him for his fault in believing the false accusa- 
tion against his betrothed wife, for her dear 
sake he would endure it. 

The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to 
marry the next morning a cousin of Hero's 
who, he said, was now his heir, and in person 
very like Hero. Claudio regarding the solemn 
promise he made to Leonato, said he would 
marry this unknown lady, even though she 
were an Ethiop ; but his heart was very 
sorrowful, and he passed that night in tears, 
and in remorseful grief, at the tomb which 
Leonato had erected for Hero. 

When the morning came, the prince accom- 
panied Claudio to the church, where the good 
friar, and Leonato and his niece, were already 
assembled, to celebrate a second nuptial : and 
Leonato presented to Claudio his promised 
bride ; and she wore a mask, that Claudio 
might not discover her face. And Claudio 
said to the lady in the mask, " Give me your 
hand, before this holy friar ; I am your husband 
if you will marry me." " And when I lived, I 
was your other wife," said this unknown lady ; 
and taking off her mask, she proved to be no 
niece (as was pretended), but Leonato's very 
daughter, the lady Hero herself. We may be 
sure that this proved a most agreeable sur- 
prise to Claudio, who thought her dead, so that 
he could scarcely for joy believe his eyes ; and 
the prince, who was equally amazed at what 
he saw, exclaimed, "Is not this Hero, Hero 
that was dead?" Leonato replied, " She died, 
my lord, but while her slander lived." The 
friar promised them an explanation of this 
seeming miracle, after the ceremony was 
ended ; and was proceeding to marry them, 
when he was interrupted by Benedick, who 
desired to be married at the same time to 
Beatrice. Beatrice making some demur to 
this match, and Benedick challenging her with 
her love for him, which he had learned from 
Hero, a pleasant explanation took place ; and 
they found they had both been tricked into a 
belief of love, which had never existed, and had 
become lovers in truth by the power of a false 
jest ; but the affection, which a merry inven- 
tion had cheated them into, was grown too 
powerful to be shaken by a serious explana- 
tion ; and since Benedick proposed to marry, 
he was resolved to think nothing to the pur- 
pose that the world could say against it ; and 
he merrily kept up the jest, and swore to 
Beatrice, that he took her but for pity, and 
because he heard she was dying of love for 
him ; and Beatrice protested, that she yielded 
but upon great persuasion, and partly to save 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 



19 



his life, for she heard he was in a consumption. 
So these two mad wits were reconciled, and 
made a match of it, after Claudio and Hero 
were married ; and to complete the history, 
Don John, the contriver of the villany, was 



taken in his flight, and brought back to Mes- 
sina ; and a brave punishment it was to this 
gloomy, discontented man, to see the joy and 
feastings which, by the disappointment of his 
plots, took place at the palace in Messina. 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 



During the time that France was divided 
into provinces (or dukedoms, as they were 
called), there reigned in one of these pro- 
vinces an usurper, who had deposed and 
banished his elder brother the lawful duke. 

The duke who was thus driven from his 
dominions, retired with a few faithful followers 
to the forest of Arden ; and here the good 
duke lived with his loving friends, who had put 
themselves into a voluntary exile for his sake, 
while their lands and revenues enriched the 
false usurper ; and custom soon made the life 
of careless ease they led here more sweet to 
them, than the pomp and uneasy splendour of 
a courtier's life. Here they lived like the old 
Robin Hood of England, and to this forest 
many noble youths daily resorted from the 
court, and did fleet the time carelessly, as they 
did who lived in the golden age. In the 
summer they lay along under the fine shade 
of the large forest-trees, marking the playful 
sports of the wild deer ; and so fond were 
they of these poor dappled fools, who seemed 
to be the native inhabitants of the forest, that 
it grieved them to be forced to kill them to 
supply themselves with venison for their food. 
"When the cold winds of winter made the duke 
feel the change of his adverse fortune, he 
would endure it patiently and say, " These 
chilling winds which blow upon my body, are 
true counsellors ; they do not flatter, but re- 
present truly to me my condition ; and though 
they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing like so 
keen as that of unkindness and ingratitude. 
I find that, howsoever men speak against 
adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be ex- 
tracted from it : like the jewel, precious for 
medicine, which is taken from the head of the 
venomous and despised toad." In this manner 
did the patient duke draw a useful moral 
from everything that he saw ; and by the help 
of this moralising turn in that life of his, remote 
from public haunts, he could find tongues in 
trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in 
stones, and good in everything. 

The banished duke had an only daughter, 
named Hosalind, whom the usurper, duke 
Frederick, when he banished her father, still 
retained in his court as a companion for his 
own daughter Celia. A strict friendship 
subsisted between these ladies, which the 



disagreement between their fathers did not 
in the least interrupt, Celia striving by every 
kindness in her power to make amends to 
Rosalind for the injustice of her own father in 
deposing the father of Rosalind ; and whenever 
the thoughts of her father's banishment, and 
her own dependence on the false usurper, made 
Rosalind melancholy, Celia's whole care was 
to comfort and console her. 

One day when Celia was talking in her usual 
kind manner to Rosalind, saying "I pray you, 
Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be merry," a mes- 
senger entered from the duke, to tell them 
that if they wished to see a wrestling-match, 
which was just going to begin, they must come 
instantly to the court before the .palace ; and 
Celia, thinking it would amuse Rosalind, agreed 
to go and see it. 

In those times wrestling, which is only 
practised now by country clowns, was a 
favourite sport even in the courts of princes, 
and before fair ladies and princesses. To 
this wrestling-match, therefore, Celia and 
Rosalind went. They found that it was likely 
to prove a very tragical sight ; for a large and 
powerful man, who had long been practised 
in the art of wrestling, and had slain many 
men in contests of this kind, was just going 
to wrestle with a very young man, who from 
his extreme youth and inexperience in the 
art, the beholders all thought would certainly 
be killed. 

When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he 
said, " How now, daughter and niece, are you 
crept hither to see the wrestling ? You will 
take little delight in it, there is such odds in 
the men : in pity to this young man, I would 
wish to persuade him from wrestling. Speak 
to him, ladies, and see if you can move him." 

The ladies were well pleased to perforin 
this humane office, and first Celia entreated 
the young stranger that he would desist from 
the attempt ; and then Rosalind spoke so 
kindly to him, and with such feeling consider- 
ation for the danger he was about to undergo, 
that instead of being persuaded by her gentle 
words to forego his purpose, all his thoughts 
were bent to distinguish himself by his courage 
in this lovely lady's eyes. He refused the 
request of Celia and Rosalind in such graceful 
and modest words, that they felt still more 



20 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



concern for him ; he concluded his refusal 
with saying, " I am sorry to deny such fair and 
excellent ladies anything. But let your fair 
eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial, 
wherein if I be conquered, there is one shamed 
that was never gracious ; if I am killed, there 
is one dead that is willing to die : I shall do 
my friends no wrong, for I have none to 
lament me ; the world no injury, for in it I 
have nothing ; for I only fill up a place in the 
world which may be better supplied when I 
have made it empty." 

And now the wrestling-match began. Celia 
wished the young stranger might not be hurt ; 
but Rosalind felt most for him. The friendless 
state which he said he was in, and that he 
wished to die, made Rosalind think that he 
was, like herself, unfortunate ; and she pitied 
him so much, and so deep an interest she took 
in his danger while he was wrestling, that she 
might almost be said at that moment to have 
fallen in love with him. 

The kindness shown this unknown youth by 
these fair and noble ladies gave him courage 
and strength, so that he performed wonders ; 
and in the end completely conquered his anta- 
gonist, who was so much hurt that for a while 
he was unable to speak or move. 

The duke Frederick was much pleased 
with the courage and skill shown by this 
young stranger ; and desired to know his name 
and parentage, meaning to take him under his 
protection. 

The stranger said his name was Orlando, and 
that he was the youngest son of Sir Rowland 
de Boys. 

Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, 
had been dead some years ; but, when he was 
living, he had been a true subject and dear 
friend of the banished duke ; therefore when 
Frederick heard Orlando was the son of his 
banished brother's friend, all his liking for this 
brave young man was changed into displeasure, 
and he left the place in very ill humour. 
Hating to hear the very name of any of his 
brother's friends, and yet still admiring the 
valour of the youth, he said, as he went out, 
that he wished Orlando had been the son of 
any other man. 

Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new 
favourite was the son of her father's old friend; 
and she said to Celia, " My father loved Sir 
Rowland de Boys, and if I had known this 
young man was his son, I would have added 
tears to my entreaties before he should have 
ventured." 

The ladies then went up to him, and seeing 
him abashed by the sudden displeasure shown 
by the duke, they spoke kind and encouraging 
words to him, and Rosalind, when they were 
going away, turned back to speak some more 
civil things to the brave young son of her 
father's old friend ; and taking a chain from off 
her neck, she said, " Gentleman, wear this for me. 



I am out of suits with fortune, or I would give 
you a more valuable present." 

When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk 
being still of Orlando, Celia began to perceive 
her cousin had fallen in love with the hand- 
some young wrestler, and she said to Rosalind, 
" Is it possible you should fall in love so sud- 
denly ? " Rosalind replied, " The duke, my 
father, loved his father dearly." " But," said 
Celia, " does it therefore follow that you should 
love his son dearly ? for then I ought to hate 
him, for my father hated his father ; yet I do 
not hate Orlando." 

Frederick being enraged at the sight of Sir 
Rowland de Boys' son, which reminded him of 
the many friends the banished duke had among 
the nobility, and having been for some time 
displeased with his niece, because the people 
praised her for her virtues, and pitied her for 
her good father's sake, his malice suddenly 
broke out against her ; and while Celia and 
Rosalind were talking of Orlando, Frederick 
entered the room, and with looks full of anger 
ordered Rosalind instantly to leave the palace, 
and follow her father into banishment ; telling 
Celia, who in vain pleaded for her, that he had 
only suffered Rosalind to stay upon her account. 
" I did not then," said Celia, " entreat you to 
let her stay, for I was too young at that time 
to value her ; but now that I know her worth, 
and that we so long have slept together, rose 
at the same instant, learned, played, and eat 
together, I cannot live out of her company." 
Frederick replied, " She is too subtle for you ; 
her smoothness, her very silence, and her pa- 
tience, speak to the people, and they pity her. 
You are a fool to plead for her, for you will 
seem more bright and virtuous when she is 
gone ; therefore open not your lips in her 
favour, for the doom which I have passed upon 
her is irrevocable." 

When Celia found she could not prevail upon 
her father to let Rosalind remain with her, 
she generously resolved to accompany her ; 
and, leaving her father's palace that night, she 
went along with her friend to seek Rosalind's 
father, the banished duke, in the forest of 
Arden. 

Before they set out, Celia considered that it 
would be unsafe for two young ladies to travel 
in the rich clothes they then wore ; she there- 
fore proposed that they should disguise their 
rank by dressing themselves like country 
maids. Rosalind said it would be a still 
greater protection if one of them was to be 
dressed like a man ; and so it was quickly 
agreed on between them, that as Rosalind was 
the tallest, she should wear the dress of a 
young countryman, and Celia should be 
habited like a country lass, and that they 
should say they were brother and sister ; and 
Rosalind said she would be called Ganimed, 
and Celia chose the name of Aliena. 

In this disguise, and taking their money and 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 



21 



jewels to defray their expenses, these fair 
princesses set out on their long travel ; for the 
forest of Arden was a long way off, beyond 
the boundaries of the duke's dominions. 

The lady Rosalind (or Ganimed as she must 
now be called) with her manly garb, seemed 
to have put on a manly courage. The faithful 
friendship Celia had shown in accompanying 
Rosalind so many weary miles, made the new 
brother, in recompence for this true love exert 
a cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganimed, 
the rustic and stout-hearted brother of the 
gentle village maiden, Aliena. 

When at last they came to the forest of 
Arden, they no longer found the convenient 
inns and good accommodations they had met 
with on the road ; and being in want of food 
and rest, Ganimed, who had so merrily cheered 
his sister with pleasant speeches and happy 
remarks all the way, now owned to Aliena 
that he was so weary, he could find in his 
heart to disgrace his man's apparel, and cry 
like a woman ; and Aliena declared she could 
go no farther ; and then again Ganimed tried 
to recollect that it was a man's duty to comfort 
and console a woman, as the weaker vessel : 
and to seem courageous to his new sister, he 
said, "Come have a good heart, my sister 
Aliena ; we are now at the end of our travel, 
in the forest of Arden." But feigned manli- 
ness and forced courage would no longer sup- 
port them ; for though they were in the forest 
of Arden, they knew not where to find the 
duke : and here the travel of these weary 
ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, 
for they might have lost themselves, and have 
perished for want of food ; but, providentially, 
as they were sitting on the grass, almost dying 
with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a 
countryman chanced to pass that way, and 
Ganimed once more tried to speak with a 
manly boldness, saying, " Shepherd, if love or 
gold can in this desert place procure us enter- 
tainment, I pray you bring us where we may 
rest ourselves ; for this young maid, my sister, 
is much fatigued with travelling, and faints for 
want of food." 

The man replied, that he was only a servant 
to a shepherd, and that his master's house was 
just going to be sold, and therefore they would 
find but poor entertainment ; but that if they 
would go with him, they should be welcome to 
what there was. They followed the man, the 
near prospect of relief giving them fresh 
strength ; and bought the house and sheep of 
the shepherd, and took the man who conducted 
them to the shepherd's house, to wait on them ; 
and being by this means so fortunately pro- 
vided with a neat cottage, and well supplied 
with provisions, they agreed to stay here till 
they could learn in what part of the forest the 
duke dwelt. 

When they were rested after the fatigue of 
their journey, they began to like their new 



way of life, and almost fancied themselves the 
shepherd and shepherdess they feigned to be ; 
yet sometimes Ganimed remembered he had 
once been the same lady Rosalind who had so 
dearly loved the brave Orlando, because he 
was the son of old sir Rowland, her father's 
friend ; and though Ganimed thought that 
Orlando was many miles distant, even so many 
weary miles as they had travelled, yet it soon 
appeared that Orlando was also in the forest 
of Arden ; and in this manner this strange 
event came to pass. 

Orlando was the youngest son of sir Row- 
land de Boys, who when he died left him 
(Orlando being then very young) to the care 
of his eldest brother Oliver, charging Oliver on 
his blessing to give his brother a good educa- 
tion, and provide for him as became the dignity 
of their ancient house. Oliver proved an 
unworthy brother ; and disregarding the com- 
mands of his dying father, he never put his 
brother to school, but kept him at home 
untaught and entirely neglected. But in his 
nature and the noble qualities of his mind 
Orlando so much resembled his excellent 
father, that without any advantages of educa- 
tion he seemed like a youth who had been 
bred with the utmost care ; and Oliver so 
envied the fine person and dignified manners 
of his untutored brother, that at last he wished 
to destroy him ; and to effect this he set on 
people to persuade him to wrestle with the 
famous wrestler, who, as has been before 
related, had killed so many men. Now it was 
this cruel brother's neglect of him which 
made Orlando 'say he wished to die, being so 
friendless. 

When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had 
formed, his brother proved victorious, his envy 
and malice knew no bounds, and he swore he 
would burn the chamber where Orlando slept. 
He was overheard making this vow by one 
that had been an old and faithful servant to 
their father, and that loved Orlando because he 
resembled sir Rowland. This old man went 
out to meet him when he returned from the 
duke's palace, and when he saw Orlando, the 
peril his dear young master was in made 
him break out into these passionate exclama- 
tions : " O my gentle master, my sweet master, 
O you memory of old sir Rowland ! why are 
you virtuous ? why are you gentle, strong, and 
valiant ? and why would you be so fond to 
overcome the famous wrestler ? your praise is 
come too swiftly home before you." Orlando, 
wondering what all this meant, asked him what 
was the matter. And then the old man told him 
how his wicked brother, envying the love all 
people bore him, and now hearing the fame 
he had gained by his victory in the duke's 
palace, intended to destroy him, by setting 
fire to his chamber that night ; and in conclu- 
sion, advised him to escape the danger he was 
in by instant flight : and knowing Orlando 



22 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



had no money, Adam (for that was the good 
old man's name) had brought out with him 
his own little hoard, and he said, " I have five 
hundred crowns, the thrifty hire I saved under 
your father, and laid by to be provision for me 
when my old limbs should become unfit for 
service ; take that, and he that doth the ravens 
feed be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ; 
all this I give to you ; let me be your servant ; 
though I look old, I will do the service of a 
younger man in all your business and neces- 
sities." " O good old man ! " said Orlando, 
" how well appears in you the constant service 
of the old world ! You are not for the fashion 
of these times. We will go along together, 
and before your youthful wages are spent, I 
shall light upon some means for both our 
maintenance." 

Together then this faithful servant and his 
loved master set out ; and Orlando and Adam 
travelled on, uncertain what course to pursue, 
till they came to the forest of Arden, and 
there they found themselves in the same dis- 
tress for want of food that Ganimed and 
Aliena had been. They wandered on, seeking 
some human habitation, till they were almost 
spent with hunger and fatigue. Adam at last 
said, " O my dear master, I die for want of 
food, I can go no farther ! " He then laid 
himself down, thinking to make that place his 
grave, and bade his dear master farewell. 
Orlando seeing him in this weak state, took 
his old servant up in his arms, and carried 
him under the shelter of some pleasant trees ; 
and he said to him, " Cheerly, old Adam, rest 
your weary limbs here awhile, and do not talk 
of dying ! " 

Orlando then searched about to find some 
food, and he happened to arrive at that part of 
the forest where the duke was ; and he and 
his friends were just going to eat their dinner, 
this royal duke being seated on the grass, 
under no other canopy than the shady covert 
of some large trees. 

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, 
drew his sword, intending to take their meat 
by force, and said, " Forbear, and eat no more; 
I must have your food ! " The duke asked 
him, if distress had made him so bold, or if he 
were a rude despiser of good manners ? On 
this Orlando said, he was dying with hunger ; 
and then the duke told him he was welcome 
to sit down and eat with them. Orlando hear- 
ing him speak so gently, put up his sword, 
and blushed with shame at the rude manner 
in which he had demanded their food. " Par- 
don me, I pray you," said he : " I thought 
that all things had been savage here, and 
therefore I put on the countenance of stern 
command ; but whatever men you are, that in 
this desert, under the shade of melancholy 
boughs, lose and neglect the creeping hours 
of time ; if ever you have looked on better 
days ; if ever you have been where bells have 



knolled to church ; if you have ever sat at any 
good man's feast; if ever from your eyelids 
you have wiped a tear, and know what it is to 
pity or be pitied, may gentle speeches now 
move you to do me human courtesy ! " The 
duke replied, " True it is that we are men (as 
you say) who have seen better days, and though 
we have now our habitations in this wild 
forest, we have lived in towns and cities, and 
have with holy bell been knolled to church, 
have sat at good men's feasts, and from our 
eyes have wiped the drops which sacred pity 
has engendered : therefore sit you down, and 
take of our refreshment as much as will 
minister to your wants." There is an old poor 
man," answered Orlando, " who has limped 
after me many a weary step in pure love, 
oppressed at once with two sad infirmities, age 
and hunger ; till he be satisfied, I must not 
touch a bit." " Go, find him out, and bring him 
hither," said the duke, " we will forbear to eat 
till you return." Then Orlando went like a 
doe to find its fawn and give it food ; and pre- 
sently returned, bringing Adam in his arms ; 
and the duke said, " set down your venerable 
burthen ; you are both welcome : " and they 
fed the old man, and cheered his heart, and he 
revived, and recovered his health and strength 
again. 

The duke inquired who Orlando was, and 
when he found that he was the son of his old 
friend, sir Rowland de Boys, he took him 
under his protection, and Orlando and his old 
servant lived with the duke in the forest. 

Orlando arrived in the forest not many days 
after Ganimed and Aliena came there, and (as 
has been before related) bought the shepherd's 
cottage. 

Ganimed and Aliena were strangely surprised 
to find the name of Rosalind carved on the 
trees, and love sonnets fastened to them, all 
addressed to Rosalind ; and while they were 
wondering how this could be, they met Orlando, 
and they perceived the chain which Rosalind 
had given him about his neck. 

Orlando little thought that Ganimed was the 
fair princess Rosalind, who by her noble con- 
descension and favour had so won his heart 
that he passed his whole time in carving her 
name upon the trees, and writing sonnets in 
praise of her beauty ; but being much pleased 
with the graceful air of this pretty shepherd 
youth, he entered into conversation with him, 
and he thought he saw a likeness in Ganimed 
to his beloved Rosalind, but that he had none 
of the dignified deportment of that noble lady ; 
for Ganimed assumed the forward manners 
often seen in youths when they are between 
boys and men, and with much arehness and 
humour talked to Orlando of a certain lover, 
" who," said he, " haunts our forest, and spoils 
our young trees with carving Rosalind upon 
their barks ; and he hangs odes upon haAvthorns, 
and elegies on brambles, all praising this same 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 



23 



Rosalind. If I could find this lover, I would 
give him some good counsel that would soon 
cure him of his love." 

Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover 
of whom he spoke, and asked Ganimed to give 
him the good counsel he talked of. The remedy 
Ganimed proposed, and the counsel he gave 
him, was that Orlando should come every day 
to the cottage where he and his sister Aliena 
dwelt. " And then," said Ganimed, " I will 
feign myself to be Rosalind, and you shall 
feign to court me in the same manner as you 
would do if I was Rosalind, and then I will 
imitate the fantastic ways of whimsical ladies 
to their lovers, till I make you ashamed of 
your love ; and this is the way I propose to 
cure you." Orlando had no great faith in the 
remedy, yet he agreed to come every day to 
Ganimed's cottage, and feign a playful court- 
ship ; and every day Orlando visited Ganimed 
and Aliena, and Orlando called the shepherd 
Ganimed his Rosalind, and every day talked 
over all the fine words and flattering com- 
pliments which young men delight to use when 
they court their mistresses. It does not appear, 
however, that Ganimed made any progress in 
curing Orlando of his love for Rosalind. 

Though Orlando thought all this was but a 
sportive play (not dreaming that Ganimed was 
his very Rosalind), yet the opportunity it gave 
him of saying all the fond things he had in his 
heart, pleased his fancy almost as well as it did 
Ganimed's, who enjoyed the secret jest in 
knowing these fine love-speeches were all ad- 
dressed to the right person. 

In this manner many days passed pleasantly 
on with these young people ; and the good- 
natured Aliena seeing it made Ganimed happy, 
let him have his own way, and was diverted at 
the mock courtship, and did not care to remind 
Ganimed that the lady Rosalind had not yet 
made herself known to the duke her father, 
whose place of resort in the forest they had 
learnt from Orlando. Ganimed met the duke 
one day, and had some talk with him, and the 
duke asked of what parentage he came ; 
Ganimed answered, that he came of as good 
parentage as he did ; which made the duke 
smile,for he did not suspect the pretty shepherd- 
boy came of royal lineage. Then seeing the 
duke look well and happy, Ganimed was content 
to put off all further explanation for a few 
days longer. 

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit 
Ganimed, he saw a man lying asleep on the 
ground, and a large green snake had twisted 
itself about his neck. The snake, seeing Or- 
lando approach, glided away among the bushes. 
Orlando went nearer, and then he discovered a 
lioness lie couching, with her head on the 
ground, with a cat-like watch, waiting till the 
j sleeping man awaked (for it is said that lions 
will prey on nothing that is dead or sleeping). 
It seemed as if Orlando was sent by Providence 



to free the man from the danger of the snake 
and lioness : but when Orlando looked in 
the man's face, he perceived that the sleeper, 
who was exposed to this double peril, was his 
own brother Oliver, who had so cruelly used 
him, and had threatened to destroy him by 
fire ; and he was almost tempted to leave him 
a prey to the hungry lioness : but brotherly 
affection and the gentleness of his nature soon 
overcame his first anger against his brother ; 
and he drew his sword, and attacked the lioness, 
and slew her, and thus preserved his brother's 
life both from the venomous snake and from 
the furious lioness ; but before Orlando could 
conquer the lioness, she had torn one of his 
arms with her sharp claws. 

While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, 
Oliver awaked, and perceiving that his brother 
Orlando, whom he had so cruelly treated, was 
saving him from the fury of a wild beast at the 
risk of his own life, shame and remorse at 
once seized him, and he repented of his un- 
worthy conduct, and besought with many tears 
his brother's pardon for the injuries he had 
done him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so 
penitent, and readily forgave him ; they em- 
braced each other ; and from that hour Oliver 
loved Orlando with a true brotherly affection, 
though he had come to the forest bent on his 
destruction. 

The wound, in Orlando's arm having bled 
very much, he found himself too weak to go to 
visit Ganimed, and therefore he desired his 
brother to go, and tell Ganimed, " whom," said 
Orlando, " I in sport do call my Rosalind," the 
accident which had befallen him. 

Thither then Oliver went, and told to Gani- 
med and Aliena how Orlando had saved his 
life ; and when he had finished the story of 
Orlando's bravery, and his own providen- 
tial escape, he owned to them that he was 
Orlando's brother, who had so cruelly used 
him ; and then he told them of their recon- 
ciliation. 

The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed 
for his offences, made such a lively impression 
on the kind heart of Aliena, that she instantly 
fell in love with him ; and Oliver observing how 
much she pitied the distress he told her he felt 
for his fault, he as suddenly fell in love with 
her. But while love was thus stealing into 
the hearts of Aliena and Oliver, he was no less 
busy with Ganimed, who hearing of the danger 
Orlando had been in, and that he was wounded 
by the lioness, fainted ; and when he recovered, 
he pretended that he had counterfeited the 
swoon in the imaginary character of Rosalind, 
and Ganimed said to Oliver, " Tell your brother 
Orlando how well I counterfeited a swoon." 
But Oliver saw by the paleness of his com- 
plexion that he did really faint, and much 
wondering at the weakness of the young man, 
he said, " Well, if you did counterfeit, take a 
good heart, and counterfeit to be a man." 



24 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



" So I do," replied Ganimed (truly), " but I 
should have been a woman by right." 

Oliver made this visit a very long one, and 
when at last he returned back to his brother, 
he had much news to tell him ; for, besides the 
account of Ganimed's fainting at the hearing 
that Orlando was wounded, Oliver told him 
how he had fallen in love with the fair shep- 
herdess Aliena, and that she had lent a favour- 
able ear to his suit, even in this their first 
interview ; and he talked to his brother, as of 
a thing almost settled, that he should marry 
Aliena, saying, that he so well loved her, that 
he would live here as a shepherd, and settle 
his estate and house at home upon Orlando. 

" You have my consent," said Orlando. 
" Let your wedding be to-morrow, and I will 
invite the duke and his friends. Go and per- 
suade your shepherdess to agree to this : she 
is now alone ; for look, here comes her brother." 
Oliver went to Aliena ; and Ganimed, whom 
Orlando had perceived approaching, came to 
inquire after the health of his wounded friend. 

When Orlando and Ganimed began to talk 
over the sudden love which had taken place 
between Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said he 
had advised his brother to persuade his fair 
shepherdess to be married on the morrow ; and 
then he added, how much he could wish to be 
married on the same day to his Rosalind. 

Ganimed, who well approved of this arrange- 
ment, said, that if Orlando really loved Rosa- 
lind as well as he professed to do, he should 
have his wish ; for on the morrow he would 
engage to make Rosalind appear in her own 
person, and also that Rosalind should be willing 
to marry Orlando. 

This seemingly wonderful event, which, as 
Ganimed was the lady Rosalind, he could so 
easily perform, he pretended he would bring 
to pass, by the aid of magic, which he said he 
had learnt of an uncle, who was a famous 
magician. 

The fond lover, Orlando, half believing and 
half doubting what he heard, asked Ganimed 
if he spoke in sober meaning. " By my life I 
do," said Ganimed ; " therefore put on your 
best clothes, and bid the duke and your friends 
to your wedding ; for, if you desire to be mar- 
ried to-morrow to Rosalind, she shall be here." 

The next morning, Oliver having obtained 
the consent of Aliena, they came into the 
presence of the duke, and with them also came 
Orlando. 

They being all assembled to celebrate this 
double marriage, and as yet only one of the 
brides appearing, there was much of wondering 
and conjecture, but they mostly thought that 
Ganimed was making a jest of Orlando. 

The duke, hearing that it was his own 
daughter that was to be brought in this strange 
way, asked Orlando if he believed the shepherd- 
boy could really do what he had promised ; 
and while Orlando was answering that he knew 



not what to think, Ganimed entered, and asked 
the duke, if he brought his daughter, whether 
he would consent to her marriage with Orlando. 
" That I would," said the duke, " if I had 
kingdoms to give with her." Ganimed then 
said to Orlando, " And you say you will marry 
her if I bring her here." " That I would," 
said Orlando, " if I were king of many king- 
doms." 

Ganimed and Aliena then went out together, 
and Ganimed, throwing off his male attire, and 
being once more dressed in woman's apparel, 
quickly became Rosalind without the power of 
magic ; and Aliena, changing her country garb 
for her own rich clothes, was with as little 
trouble transformed into the lady Gelia. 

While they were gone, the duke said to Or- 
lando, that he thought the shepherd Ganimed 
very like his daughter Rosalind : and Orlando 
said, he also had observed the resemblance. 

They had no time to wonder how all this 
would end, for Rosalind and Celia in their own 
clothes entered ; and no longer pretending 
that it was by the power of magic that she 
came there, Rosalind threw herself on her 
knees before her father, and begged his blessing. 
It seemed so wonderful to all present that she 
should so suddenly appear, that it might well 
have passed for magic ; but Rosalind would no 
longer trifle with her father, and told him the 
story of her banishment, and of her dwelling 
in the forest as a shepherd-boy, her cousin 
Celia passing as her sister. 

The duke ratified the consent he had already 
given to the marriage ; and Orlando and Rosa- 
lind, Oliver and Celia, were married at the 
same time. And though their wedding could 
not be celebrated in this wild forest with any 
of the parade or splendour usual on such occa- 
sions, yet a happier wedding-day was never 
passed : and while they were eating their 
venison under the cool shade of the pleasant 
trees, as if nothing should be wanting to com- 
plete the felicity of this good duke and the 
true lovers, an unexpected messenger arrived 
to tell the duke the joyful news, that his duke- 
dom was restored to him. 

The usurper, enraged at the flight of his 
daughter Celia, and hearing that every day 
men of great worth resorted to the forest of 
Arden to join the lawful duke in his exile, 
much envying that his brother should be so 
highly respected in his adversity, put himself 
at the head of a large force, and advanced 
towards the forest, intending to seize his bro- 
ther, and put him, with all his faithful followers, 
to the sword; but, by a wonderful interposition 
of Providence, this bad brother was converted 
from his evil intention : for just as he entered 
the skirts of the wild forest, he was met by an 
old religious man, a hermit, with whom he 
had much talk, and who in the end completely 
turned his heart from his wicked design. 
Thenceforward he became a true penitent, and 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



resolved, relinquishing his unjust dominion, to 
spend the remainder of his days in a religious 
house. The first act of his newly-conceived 
penitence was to send a messenger to his bro- 
ther (as has been related), to offer to restore 
to him his dukedom, which he had usurped so 
long, and with it the lands and revenues 
of his friends, the faithful followers of his 
adversity. 

This joyful news, as unexpected as it was 
welcome, r came opportunely to heighten the 
festivity and rejoicings at the wedding of the 
princesses. Celia complimented her cousin 
on this good fortune which had happened to 



the duke, Rosalind's father, and wished her 
joy very sincerely, though she herself was no 
longer heir to the dukedom, hut by this resto- 
ration which her father had made, Rosalind 
was now the heir : so completely was the love 
of these two cousins unmixed with anything 
of jealousy or envy. 

The duke had now an opportunity of re- 
warding those true friends who had stayed 
with him in his banishment ; and these worthy 
followers, though they had patiently shared 
his adverse fortune, Avere very well pleased to 
return in peace and prosperity to the palace of 
their lawful duke. 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



There lived in the city of Verona two young 
gentlemen, whose names were Valentine and 
Protheus, between whom a firm and uninter- 
rupted friendship had long subsisted. They pur- 
sued their studies together, and their hours of 
leisure were always passed in each other's com- 
pany, except when Protheus visited a lady he 
was in love with ; and these visits to his mistress, 
and this passion of Protheus for the fair Julia, 
were the only topics on whichthese two friends 
disagreed : for Valentine, not being himself a 
lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing 
his friend for ever talking of his Julia, and 
then he would laugh at Protheus, and in plea- 
sant terms ridicule the passion of love, and 
declare that no such idle fancies should ever 
enter his head, greatly preferring (as he said) 
the free and happy life he led to the anxious 
hopes and fears of the lover Protheus. 

One morning Valentine came to Protheus to 
tell him that they must for a time be separated, 
for that he was going to Milan. Protheus, 
unwilling to part with his friend, used many 
arguments to prevail upon Valentine not to 
leave him ; but Valentine said, " Cease to per- 
suade me, my loving Protheus ; I will not, like 
a sluggard, wear out my youth in idleness 
at home. Home-keeping youths have ever 
homely wits. If your affections were not 
chained to the sweet glances of your honoured 
Julia, I would entreat you to accompany me, 
to see the wonders of the world abroad : but 
since you are a lover, love on still, and may 
your love be prosperous !" 

They parted with mutual expressions of 
unalterable friendship. " Sweet Valentine, 
adieu ! " said Protheus ; " think on me, when 
you see some rare object worthy of notice in 
your travels, and wish me partaker of your 
happiness." 

Valentine began his journey that same day 
towards Milan : and when his friend had left 



him, Protheus sat down to write a letter to 
Julia, which he gave to her maid Lucetta to 
deliver to her mistress. 

Julia loved Protheus as well as he did her, 
but she was a lady of a noble spirit, and she 
thought it did not become her maiden dignity 
too easily to be won ; therefore she affected to 
be insensible of his passion, and gave him much 
uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit. 

And,when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, 
she would not receive it, and chid her maid 
for taking letters from Protheus, and ordered 
her to leave the room. But she so much 
wished to see what was written in the letter, 
that she soon called in her maid again, and 
when Lucetta returned, she said, "What 
o'clock is it ? " Lucetta, who knew her mistress 
more desired to see the letter than to know 
the time of day, without answering her ques- 
tion, again offered the rejected letter. Julia, 
angry that her maid should thus take the 
liberty of seeming to know what she really 
wanted, tore the letter in pieces, and threw it 
on the floor, ordering her maid once more out 
of the room. As Lucetta was retiring, she 
stopped to pick up the fragments of the torn 
letter ; but Julia, who meant not so to part 
with them, said, in pretended anger, " Go, get 
you gone, and let the papers lie ; you would 
be fingering them to anger me." 

Julia then began to piece together as well as 
she could the torn fragments. She first made 
out these words, " Love-wounded Protheus ; " 
and lamenting over these and such-like loving 
words, which she made out though they were 
all torn asunder, or, she said, wounded (the 
expression " Love-wounded Protheus," giving 
her that idea), she talked to these kind words, 
telling them she would lodge them in her 
bosom as in a bed, till their wounds were 
healed, and that she would kiss each several 
piece to make amends. 



26 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



In this manner she went on talking with a 
pretty lady-like childishness, till finding her- 
self unable to make out the whole, and vexed 
at her own ingratitude in destroying such 
sweet and loving words, as she called them, 
she wrote a much kinder letter to Protheus 
than she had ever done before. 

Protheus was greatly delighted at receiving 
this favourable answer to his letter ; and 
while he was reading it, he exclaimed, " Sweet 
love, sweet lines, sweet life !" In the midst 
of his raptures he was interrupted by his 
father : " How now ! " said the old gentleman ; 
" what letter are you reading there ?" 

" My lord," replied Protheus, " it is a letter 
from my friend Valentine, at Milan." 

" Lend me the letter," said his father : " let 
me see what news." 

" There are no news, my lord," said Protheus 
greatly alarmed, " but that he writes how well 
beloved he is of the duke of Milan, who daily 
graces him with favours ; and how he wishes 
me with him the partner of his fortune." 

" And how stand you affected to his wish ? " 
asked the father. 

"As one relying on your lordship's will, 
and not depending on his friendly wish," said 
Protheus. 

Now it had happened that Protheus' father 
had just been talking with a friend on this 
very subject : his friend had said, he wondered 
his lordship suffered his son to spend his youth 
at home, while most men were sending their 
sons to seek preferment abroad ; " some," said 
he, " to the wars, to try their fortunes there, 
and some to discover islands far away, and 
some to study in foreign universities ; and 
there is his companion Valentine, he is gone to 
the duke of Milan's court. Your son is fit for 
any of these things, and it will be a great dis- 
advantage to him in his riper age, not to have 
travelled in his youth." 

Protheus' father thought the advice of his 
friend was very good, and upon Protheus tell- 
ing him that Valentine, " wished him with him, 
the partner of his fortune," he at once deter- 
mined to send his son to Milan ; and without 
giving Protheus any reason for this sudden 
resolution, it being the usual habit of this posi- 
tive old gentleman to command his son, not 
reason with him, he said, " My will is the same 
as Valentine's wish : " and seeing his son look 
astonished, he added, " Look not amazed, that 
I so suddenly resolve you shall spend some 
time in the duke of Milan's court ; for what I 
will I will, and there is an end. To-morrow 
be in readiness to go. Make no excuses, for I 
am peremptory." 

Protheus knew it was of no use to make ob- 
jections to his father, who never suffered him 
to dispute his will ; and he blamed himself for 
telling his father an untruth about Julia's 
letter, which had brought upon him the sad 
necessity of leaving her. 



Now that Julia found she was going to lose 
Protheus for so long a time, she no longer pre- 
tended indifference ; and they bade each other 
a mournful farewell with many vows of love 
and constancy. Protheus and Julia exchanged 
rings, which they both promised to keep for 
ever in remembrance of each other ; and thus, 
taking a sorrowful leave, Protheus set out on 
his journey to Milan, the abode of his friend 
Valentine. 

Valentine was in reality what Protheus had 
feigned to his father, in high favour with the 
duke of Milan ; and another event had hap- 
pened to him, of which Protheus did not even 
dream, for Valentine had given up the freedom 
of which lie used so much to boast, and was 
become as passionate a lover as Protheus. 

She who had wrought this wondrous change 
in Valentine, was the lady Silvia, daughter of 
the duke of Milan, and she also loved him ; 
but they concealed their love from the duke, 
because although he showed much kindness 
for Valentine, and invited him every day to 
his palace, yet he designed to marry his 
daughter to a young courtier, whose name 
was Thurio. Silvia despised this Thurio, for 
he had none of the fine sense and excellent 
qualities of Valentine. 

These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, 
were one day on a visit to Silvia, and Valen- 
tine was entertaining Silvia with turning 
everything Thurio said into ridicule, when 
the duke himself entered the room, and told 
Valentine the welcome news of his friend 
Protheus' arrival. Valentine said, " If I had 
wished a thing, it would have been to have 
seen him here ! " and then he highly praised 
Protheus to the duke, saying, "My lord, though 
I have been a truant of my time, yet hath my 
friend made use and fair advantage of his 
days, and is complete in person and in mind, 
in all good grace to grace a gentleman." 

" Welcome him then according to his worth," 
said the duke : " Silvia, I speak to you, and 
you, sir Thurio ; for Valentine, I need not bid 
him do so." They were here interrupted by 
the entrance of Protheus, and Valentine intro- 
duced him to Silvia, saying, "Sweet lady, 
entertain him to be my fellow-servant to your 
ladyship." 

When Valentine and Protheus had ended 
their visit, and were alone together, Valentine 
said, " Now tell me how all does from whence 
you came ? How does your lady, and how 
thrives your love ? " Protheus replied, " My 
tales of love used to weary you. I know you 
joy not in a love-discourse." 

" Ay, Protheus," returned Valentine, " but 
that life is altered now. I have done penance 
for condemning love. For in revenge of my 
contempt of Love, Love has chased sleep from 
my enthralled eyes. O gentle Protheus, Love 
is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled me, that 
I confess there is no woe like his correction, 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



27 



nor no such joy on earth as in his service. I 
now like no discourse except it be of love. 
Now I can break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep 
upon the very name of love." 

This acknowledgment of the change which 
love had made in the disposition of Valentine 
was a great triumph to his friend Protheus. 
But "friend" Protheus must be called no 
longer, for the same all-powerful deity Love, 
of whom they were speaking (yea even while 
they were talking of the change he had made 
in Valentine) was working in the heart of 
Protheus ; and he, who had till this time been 
a pattern of true love and perfect friendship, 
was now, in one short interview with Silvia, 
become a false friend and a faithless lover : 
for at the first sight of Silvia, all his love for 
Julia vanished away like a dream, nor did his 
long friendship for Valentine deter him from 
endeavouring to supplant him in her affections : 
and although, as it will always be, when peo- 
ple of dispositions naturally good become un- 
just, he had many scruples, before he deter- 
mined to forsake Julia, and become the rival 
of Valentine, yet he at length overcame his 
sense of duty, and yielded himself up, almost 
without remorse, to his new unhappy passion. 

Valentine imparted to him in confidence the 
whole history of his love, and how carefully 
they had concealed it from the duke her 
father ; and told him, that despairing of ever 
being able to obtain his consent, he had pre- 
vailed upon Silvia to leave her father's palace 
that night, and go with him to Mantua ; then 
he showed Protheus a ladder of ropes, by help 
of which he meant to assist Silvia to get out of 
one of the windows of the palace, after it was 
dark. 

Upon hearing this faithful recital of his 
friend's dearest secrets, it is hardly possible 
to be believed, but so it was that Protheus 
resolved to go to the duke and disclose the 
whole to him. 

This false friend began his tale with many 
artful speeches to the duke, such as that by 
the laws of friendship he ought to conceal 
what he was going to reveal, but that the 
gracious favour the duke had shown him, and 
the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell 
that, which else no worldly good should draw 
from him : he then told all he had heard from 
Valentine, not omitting the ladder of ropes, 
and the manner in which Valentine meant to 
conceal them under a long cloak. 

The duke thought Protheus quite a miracle 
of integrity, in that he preferred telling his 
friend's intention rather than he would con- 
ceal an unjust action : highly commended him, 
and promised him not to let Valentine know 
from whom he had learnt this intelligence, 
but by some artifice to make Valentine betray 
the secret himself. For this purpose the 
duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the 
evening, whom he soon saw hurrying towards 



the palace, and he perceived somewhat was 
wrapped within his cloak, which he concluded 
was the rope-ladder. 

The duke upon this stopped him, saying, 
" Whither away so fast, Valentine % " " May 
it please your grace," said Valentine, "there 
is a messenger, that stays to bear my letters to 
my friends, and I am going to deliver them." 
Now this falsehood of Valentine's had no 
better success in the event than the untruth 
Protheus told his father. 
" Be they of much import ? " said the duke. 
" No more, my lord," said Valentine, " than 
to tell my father I am well and happy at your 
grace's court." 

" Nay, then," said the duke, " no matter : 
stay with me awhile. I wish your counsel 
about some affairs that concern me nearly." 
He then told Valentine an artful story, as a 
prelude to draw his secret from him, saying, 
that Valentine knew he wished to match his 
daughter with Thurio, but that she was stub- 
born and disobedient to his commands, "neither 
regarding," said he, " that she is my child, nor 
fearing me as if I were her father. And I 
may say to thee, this pride of hers has drawn 
my love from her. I had thought my age 
should have been cherished by her child-like 
duty. I now am resolved to take a wife, and 
turn her out to whosoever will take her in. 
Let her beauty be her wedding-dower, for me 
and my possessions she esteems not." 

Valentine, wondering where all this would 
end, made answer, " And what would your 
grace have to do in all this ? " 

" Why," said the duke, " the lady I would 
wish to marry is nice and coy, and does not 
much esteem my aged eloquence. Besides, 
the fashion of courtship is much changed since 
I was young ; now I would willingly have you 
to be my tutor to instruct me how I am to woo." 
Valentine gave him a general idea of the 
modes of courtship then practised by young 
men, when they wished to win a fair lady's 
love ; such as presents, frequent visits, and the 
like. 

The duke replied to this, that the lady did 
refuse a present which he sent her, and that 
she was so strictly kept by her father, that no 
man might have access to her by day. 

" Why then," said Valentine, " you must 
visit her by night." 

" By night ? " said the artful duke, who was 
now coming to the drift of his discourse, " her 
doors are fast locked." 

Valentine then unfortunately proposed, that 
the duke should get into the lady's chamber at 
night, by means of a ladder of ropes, saying, 
he would procure him one fitting for that pur- 
pose ; and, in conclusion, advised him to con- 
ceal this ladder of ropes under such a cloak as 
that which he now wore. " Lend me your 
cloak," said the duke, who had feigned this 
long story on purpose to have a pretence to get 



211 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



off the cloak : so, upon saying these words, he 
caught hold of Valentine's cloak, and throwing 
it back, he discovered not only the ladder of 
ropes, but also a letter of Silvia's, which he 
instantly opened, and read ; and this letter 
contained a full account of their intended 
elopement. The duke, after upbraiding Va- 
lentine for his ingratitude in thus returning 
the favour he had shown him, by endeavour- 
ing to steal away his daughter, banished him 
from the court and city of Milan for ever ; 
and Valentine was forced to depart that night, 
without even seeing Silvia. 

While Protheus at Milan was thus injuring 
Valentine, Julia at Verona was regretting the 
absence of Protheus ; and her regard for him 
at last so far overcame her sense of propriety, 
that she resolved to leave Verona, and seek 
her lover at Milan ; and to secure herself from 
danger on the road, she dressed her maid 
Lucetta and herself in men's clothes, and they 
set out in this disguise, and arrived at Milan 
soon after Valentine was banished from that 
city, through the treachery of Protheus. 

Julia entered Milan about noon, and she 
took up her abode at an inn ; and her thoughts 
being all on her dear Protheus, she entered 
into conversation with the innkeeper, or host, 
as he was called, thinking by that means to 
learn some news of Protheus. 

The host was greatly pleased that this hand- 
some young gentleman, (as he took her to be), 
who from his appearance he concluded was of 
high rank, spoke so familiarly to him ; and 
being a good-natured man, he was sorry to see 
him look so melancholy ; and to amuse his 
young guest he offered to take him to hear 
some fine music, with which, he said, a gentle- 
man that evening was going to serenade his 
mistress. 

The reason Julia looked so very melancholy 
was, that she did not well know what Protheus 
would think of the imprudent step she had 
taken ; for she knew he had loved her for her 
noble maiden pride and dignity of character, 
and she feared she should lower herself in his 
esteem ; and this it was that made her wear a 
sad and thoughtful countenance. 

She gladly accepted the offer of the host to 
go with him, and hear the music ; for she 
secretly hoped she might meet Protheus by 
the way. 

But when she came to the palace whither 
the host conducted her, a very different effect 
was produced to what the kind host intended ; 
for there, to her heart's sorrow, she beheld her 
lover, the inconstant Protheus, serenading the 
lady Silvia with music, and addressing dis- 
course of love and admiration to her. And 
Julia overheard Silvia from a window talk with 
Protheus, and reproach him for forsaking his 
own true lady, and for his ingratitude to his 
friend Valentine ; and then Silvia left the 
window, not choosing to listen to his music 



and his fine speeches ; for she was a faithful 
lady to her banished Valentine, and abhorred 
the ungenerous conduct of his false friend 
Protheus. 

Though Julia was in despair at what she 
had just witnessed, yet did she still love the 
truant Protheus ; and hearing that he had 
lately parted with a servant, she contrived, 
with the assistance of her host, the friendly 
innkeeper, to hire herself to Protheus as a 
page ; and Protheus knew not she was Julia, 
and he sent her with letters and presents to 
her rival Silvia, and he even sent by her the 
very ring she gave him as a parting gift at 
Verona. 

"When she went to that lady with the ring, 
she was most glad to find that Silvia utterly 
rejected the suit of Protheus ; and Julia, or 
the page Sebastian, as she was called, entered 
into conversation with Silvia about Protheus' 
first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She putting 
in (as one may say) a good word for herself, 
said she knew Julia ; as well she might, being 
herself the Julia of whom she spoke : telling 
how fondly Julia loved her master Protheus, 
and how his unkind neglect would grieve her ; 
and then she, with a pretty equivocation, went 
on : " Julia is about my height, and of my 
complexion, the colour of her eyes and hair 
the same as mine:" and indeed Julia looked 
a most beautiful youth in her boy's attire. 
Silvia was moved to pity this lovely lady, who 
was .so sadly forsaken by the man she loved ; 
and when Julia offered the ring which Protheus 
had sent, refused it, saying, " The more shame 
for him that he sends me that ring ; I will not 
take it, for I have often heard him say his 
Julia gave it to him. I love thee, gentle 
youth, for pitying her, poor lady ! Here is a 
purse ; I give it you for Julia's sake." These 
comfortable words coming from her kind rival's 
tongue cheered the drooping heart of the dis- 
guised lady. 

But to return to the banished Valentine ; 
who scarce knew which way to bend his course, 
being unwilling to return home to his father a 
disgraced and banished man ; as he was wan- 
dering over a lonely forest, not far distant from 
Milan, where he had left his heart's dear 
treasure, the lady Silvia, he was set upon by 
robbers, who demanded his money. 

Valentine told them, that he was a man 
crossed by adversity, that he was going into 
banishment, and that he had no money, the 
clothes he had on being all his riches. 

The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed 
man, and being struck with his noble air and 
manly behaviour, told him, if he would live 
with them and be their chief, or captain, they 
would put themselves under his command ; 
but that if he refused to accept their offer, 
they would kill him. 

Valentine, who cared little what became of 
himself, said, he would consent to live with 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEBONA. 



29 



them, and be their captain, provided they did 
no outrage on women or poor passengers. 

Tims the noble Valentine became, like Robin 
Hood, of whom we read in ballads, a captain 
of robbers and outlawed banditti : and in this 
situation he was found by Silvia, and in this 
manner it came to pass. 

Silvia, to avoid a marriage Avith Tlmrio, 
whom her father insisted upon her no longer 
refusing, came at last to the resolution of fol- 
lowing Valentine to Mantua, at which place she 
had heard her lover had taken refuge ; but in 
this account she was misinformed, for he still 
lived in the forest among the robbers, bearing 
the name of their captain, but taking no part 
in their depredations, and using the authority 
which they had imposed upon him in no other 
way, than to compel them to show compassion 
to the travellers they robbed. 

Silvia contrived to effect her escape from 
her father's palace in company with a worthy 
old gentleman, whose name was Eglamour, 
whom she took along with her for protection 
on the road. She had to pass through the 
forest where Valentine and the banditti 
dwelt ; and one of these robbers seized on 
Silvia, and would also have taken Eglamour, 
but he escaped. 

The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the 
terror she was in, bid her not be alarmed, 
for that he was only going to carry her to a 
cave where his captain lived, and that she need 
not be afraid, for their captain had an honour- 
able mind, and always showed humanity to 
women. Silvia found little comfort in hearing 
she was going to be carried as a prisoner before 
the captain of a lawless banditti. "0 Valen- 
tine," she cried, "this I endure for thee !" 

But as the robber was conveying her to the 
cave of his captain, he was stopped by Protheus, 
who, still attended by Julia in the disguise of 
a page, having heard of the flight of Silvia, 
had traced her steps to this forest. Protheus 
now rescued her from the hands of the robber ; 
but scarce had she time to thank him for the 
service he had done her, before he began to 
distress her afresh with his love-suit : and 
while he was rudely pressing her to consent to 
marry him, and his page (the forlorn Julia) 
was standing beside him in great anxiety of 
mind, fearing lest the great service which 
Protheus had just done to Silvia should win 
her to show him some favour, they were all 
strangely surprised with the sudden appear- 
ance of Valentine, who having heard his rob- 
bers had taken a lady prisoner, came to console 
and relieve her. 

Protheus was courting Silvia, and he was so 
much ashamed of being caught by his friend, 
that he was all at once seized with penitence 
and remorse ; and he expressed such a lively 
sorrow for the injuries he had done to Valen- 
tine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble 
and generous, even to a romantic degree, not 



only forgave and restored him to his former 
place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight 
of heroism he said, " I freely do forgive you ; 
and all the interest I have in Silvia, I give it 
up to you." Julia, who was standing beside 
her master as a page, hearing this strange 
offer, and fearing Protheus would not be able 
with this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia, 
fainted, and they were all employed in re- 
covering her : else would Silvia have been 
offended at being thus made over to Protheus, 
though she could scarcely think that Valentine 
would long persevere in this overstrained and 
too generous act of friendship. When Julia 
recovered from the fainting-fit, she said, " I 
had forgot, my master ordered me to deliver 
this ring to Silvia." Protheus, looking upon 
the ring, saw that it was the one he gave to 
Julia, in return for that which he received 
from her, and which he had sent by the sup- 
posed page to Silvia. '' Plow is this ? " said 
he, " this is Julia's ring : how came you by it, 
boy ? " Julia answered, " Julia herself did 
give it me, and Julia herself hath brought it 
hither." 

Protheus now looking earnestly upon her, 
plainly perceived that the page Sebastian was 
no other than the lady Julia herself : and the 
proof she had given of her constancy and 
true love so wrought in him, that his love 
for her returned into his heart, and he took 
again his own dear lady, and joyfully resigned 
all pretensions to the lady Silvia to Valentine, 
who had so well deserved her. 

Protheus and Valentine were expressing 
their happiness in their reconciliation, and in 
the love of their faithful ladies, when they 
were surprised with the / sight of the duke of 
Milan and Thurio, who came there in pursuit 
of Silvia. 

Thurio first approached, and attempted to 
seize Silvia, saying, " Silvia is mine." Upon 
this Valentine said to him in a very spirited 
manner, " Thurio, keep back : if once again 
you say that Silvia is yours, you shall embrace 
your death. Here she stands ; take but pos- 
session of her with a touch ! I dare you but 
to breathe upon my love." Hearing this 
threat, Thurio, who was a great coward, drew 
back, and said he cared not for her, and that 
none but a fool would fight for a girl who loved 
him not. 

The duke, who was a very brave man him- 
self, said now in great anger, " The more base 
and degenerate in you to take such means for 
her as you have done, and leave her on such 
slight conditions." Then turning to Valen- 
tine, he said, " I do applaud your spirit, Valen- 
tine, and think you worthy of an empress's 
love. You shall have Silvia, for you have 
well deserved her." Valentine then with 
great humility kissed the duke's hand, and 
accepted the noble present which he had made 
him of his daughter with becoming thankful- 



30 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



ness ; taking occasion of this joyful minute to 
entreat the good-humoured duke to pardon 
the thieves with whom he had associated in 
the forest, assuring him, that when reformed 
and restored to society, there would be found 
among them many good, and fit for great em- 
ployment ; for the most of them had been 
banished, like Valentine, for state offences, 
rather than for any black crimes they had been 
guilty of. To this the ready duke consented : 
and now nothing remained but that Protheus, 



the false friend, was ordained, by way of 
penance, for his love-prompted faults, to be 
present at the recital of the whole story of his 
loves and falsehoods before the duke ; and the 
shame of the recital to his awakened con- 
science was judged sufficient punishment : 
which being done, the lovers, all four, returned 
back to Milan, and their nuptials were solem- 
nised in presence of the duke, with high 
triumphs and feasting. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 



Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice : he was 
an usurer, who had amassed an immense for- 
tune by lending money at great interest to 
Christian merchants. Shylock, being a hard- 
hearted man, exacted the payment of the 
money he lent with such severity, that he was 
much disliked by all good men, and particu- 
larly by Anthonio, a young merchant of 
Venice; and Shylock as much hated Anthonio, 
because he used to lend money to people in 
distress, and would never take any interest 
for the money he lent ; therefore there was 
great enmity between this covetous Jew and 
the generous merchant Anthonio. Whenever 
Anthonio met Shylock on the Rialto (or 
Exchange,) he used to reproach him with his 
usuries and hard dealings ; which the Jew 
would bear with seeming patience, while he 
secretly meditated revenge. 

Anthonio was the kindest man that lived, 
the best conditioned, and had the most un- 
wearied spirit in doing courtesies ; indeed he 
was one in whom the ancient Roman honour 
more appeared than in any that drew breath 
in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his 
fellow-citizens ; but the friend who was nearest 
and dearest to his heart was Bassanio, a noble 
Venetian, who, having but a small patrimony, 
had nearly exhausted hislittle fortune by living 
in too expensive a manner for his slender 
means, as young men of high rank with small 
fortunes are too apt to do. Whenever Bassanio 
wanted money, Anthonio assisted him ; and it 
seemed as if they had but one heart and one 
purse between them. 

One day Bassanio came to Anthonio, and 
told him that he wished to repair his fortune 
by a wealthy marriage with a lady whom he 
dearly loved, whose father, that was lately 
dead, had left her sole heiress to a large estate; 
and that in her father's lifetime he used to 
visit at her house, when he thought he had 
observed this lady had sometimes from her 
eyes sent speechless messages, that seemed to 
say he would be no unwelcome suitor ; but not 



having money to furnish himself with an 
appearance befitting the lover of so rich an 
heiress, he besought Anthonio to add to the 
many favours he had shown him, by lending 
him three thousand ducats. 

Anthonio had no money by him at that time 
to lend his friend ; but expecting soon to have 
some ships come home laden with merchandise, 
he said he would go to Shylock, the rich money- 
lender, and borrow the money upon the credit 
of those ships. 

Anthonio and Bassanio went together to 
Shylock, and Anthonio asked the Jew to lend 
him three thousand ducats upon any interest 
he should require, to be paid out of the mer- 
chandise contained in his ships at sea. On 
this Shylock thought within himself : " If I 
can once catch him on the hip, I will feed fat 
the ancient grudge I bear him ; he hates our 
Jewish nation ; he lends out money gratis ; 
and among the merchants he rails at me and 
my well-earned bargains, which he calls in- 
terest. Cursed be my tribe if I forgive him ! " 
Anthonio finding he was musing within himself 
and did not answer, and being impatient for 
the money, said, " Shylock, do you hear ? will 
you lend the money ? " To this question the 
Jew replied, " Signor Anthonio, on the Rialto 
many a time and often you have railed at me 
about my monies, and my usuries, and I have 
borne it with a patient shrug, for sufferance is 
the badge of all our tribe ; and then you have 
called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit 
upon my Jewish garments, and spurned at me 
with your foot, as if I was a cur. Well then, 
it now appears you need my help ; and you 
come to me, and say, Shylock, lend me monies. 
Has a dog money ? Is it possible a cur should 
lend three thousand ducats ? Shall I bend low 
and say, Fair sir, you spit upon me on Wed- 
nesday last, another time you called me dog, and 
for these courtesies I am to lend you monies." 
Anthonio replied, " I am as like to call you so 
again, to spit on you again, and spurn you too. 
If you will lend me this money, lend it not to 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, 



31 



me as to a friend, but rather lend it to me as 
to an enemy, that if I break, you may with 
better face exact the penalty." " Why, look 
you," said Shy lock, " how you storm ! I would 
be friends with you, and have your love. I 
will forget the shames you have put upon me. 
I will supply your wants, and take no interest 
for my money." This seemingly kind offer 
greatly surprised Anthonio ; and then Shylock, 
still pretending kindness, and that all he did 
was to gain Anthonio's love, again said he 
would lend him three thousand ducats, and 
take no interest for his money ; only Anthonio 
should go with him to a lawyer, and there sign 
in merry sport a bond, that if he did not repay 
the money by a certain day, he would forfeit 
a pound of flesh, to be cut off from any part 
of his body that Shylock pleased. 

" Content," said Anthonio ; " I will sign to 
this bond, and say there is much kindness in 
the Jew." 

Bassanio said Anthonio should not sign to 
such a bond for him : but still Anthonio in- 
sisted that he would sign it, for that before the 
day of payment came, his ships would return 
laden with many times the value of the money. 

Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, 
" O father Abraham, what suspicious people 
these Christians are ! Their own hard dealings 
teach them to suspect the thoughts of others. 
I pray you tell me this, Bassanio : if he should 
break this day, what should T gain by the ex- 
action of the forfeiture % A pound of man's 
flesh, taken from a man, is not so estimable, 
nor profitable neither, as the flesh of mutton 
or of beef. I say, to buy his favour I offer this 
friendship : if he will take it, so ; if not, adieu." 

At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, 
notwithstanding all the Jew had said of his 
kind intentions, did not like his friend should 
run the hazard of this shocking penalty for his 
sake, Anthonio signed the bond, thinking it 
really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport. 

The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to 
marry lived near Venice, at a place called 
Belmont : her name was Portia, and in the 
graces of her person and her mind she was 
nothing inferior to that Portia, of whom we 
read, who was Cato's daughter, and the wife 
of Brutus. 

Bassanio, being so kindly supplied with 
money by his friend Anthonio at the hazard of 
his life, set out for Belmont with a splendid 
train, and attended by a gentleman of the name 
of Gratiano. 

Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia 
in a short time consented to accept of him for 
a husband. 

Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no 
fortune, and that his high birth and noble an- 
cestry was all that he could boast of; she, 
who loved him for his worthy qualities, and 
had riches enough not to regard wealth in a 
husband, answered with a graceful modesty, 



that she would wish herself a thousand times 
more fair, and ten thousand times more rich, 
to be more worthy of him ; and then the accom- 
plished Portia prettily dispraised herself, and 
said she was an unlessoned girl, unschooled, 
unpractised, yet not so old but that she could 
learn, and that she would commit her gentle 
spirit to be directed and governed by him in 
all things ; and she said, " Myself and what is 
mine, to you and yours is now converted. But 
yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of this fair 
mansion, queen of myself, and mistress over 
these servants ; and now this house, these 
servants, and myself, are yours, my lord ; I 
give them with this ring :" presenting a ring 
to Bassanio. 

Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude 
and wonder at the gracious manner in which 
the rich and noble Portia accepted of a man 
of his humble fortunes, that he could not 
express his joy and reverence to the dear lady 
who had so honoured him, by anything but 
broken words of love and thankfulness : and 
taking the ring, he vowed never to part with it. 

Gratiano, and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, 
were in attendance upon their lord and lady, 
when Portia so gracefully promised to become 
the obedient wife of Bassanio ; and Gratiano, 
wishingBassanio and the generous lady joy, de- 
sired permission to be married at the same time. 

" With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bas- 
sanio, " if you can get a wife." 

Gratiano then said that he loved the lady 
Portia's fair waiting gentlewoman, Nerissa, 
and that she had promised to be his wife, if 
her lady married Bassanio. Portia asked 
Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa replied, 
" Madam, it is so, if you approve of it." Portia 
willingly consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, 
" Then our wedding-feast shall be much 
honoured by your marriage, Gratiano." 

The happiness of these lovers was sadly 
crossed at this moment by the entrance of a 
messenger, who brought a letter from Anthonio 
containing fearful tidings. When Bassanio 
read Anthonio's letter, Portia feared it was to 
tell him of the death of some dear friend, he 
looked so pale; and inquiring what was the 
news which had so distressed him, he said, K O 
sweet Portia, here are a few of the unpleasantest 
words that ever blotted paper : gentle lady, 
when I first imparted my love to you, I freely 
told you all the wealth I had ran in my veins ; 
but I should have told you that I had less than 
nothing, being in debt." Bassanio then told 
Portia what has been here related, of his 
borrowing the money of Anthonio, and of An- 
thonio's procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and of 
thebond by which Anthonio had engaged to for- 
feit a pound of flesh, if it was not repaid by a 
certain day ; and then Bassanio read Anthonio's 
letter, the words of which were, " Sweet Bassanio, 
my ships are all lost, my bond to the Jew is forfeited, 
and since in paying it is impossible I should live, I 



32 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



could wish to see you at my death ; notwithstanding 
use your pleasure ; if your love for me do not per- 
suade you to come, let not my letter" " O my 
dear love," said Portia, " despatch all business 
and be gone ; you shall have gold to pay the 
money twenty times over, before this kind 
friend shall lose a hair by my Bassanio's fault ; 
and as you are so dearly bought, I will dearly 
love you." Portia then said she would be 
married to Bassanio before he set out, to give 
him a legal right to her money ; and that same 
day they were married, and Gratiano was also 
married to Nerissa ; and Bassanio and Gra- 
tiano, the instant they were married, set out in 
great haste for Venice, where Bassanio found 
Anthonio in prison. 

The day of payment being past, the cruel 
Jew would not accept of the money which 
Bassanio offered him, but insisted upon having 
a pound of Anthonio's flesh. A day was ap- 
pointed to try this shocking cause before the 
duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in 
dreadful suspense the event of the trial. 

When Portia parted with her husband, she 
spoke cheeringly to him, and bade him bring 
his dear friend along with him when he re- 
turned ; yet she feared it would go hard with 
Anthonio, and when she was left alone, she 
began to think and consider within herself, if 
she could by any means be instrumental in 
saving the life of her dear Bassanio's friend ; 
and notwithstanding, when she wished to honour 
her Bassanio, she had said to him with such a 
meek and wife-like grace, that she would sub- 
mit in all things to be governed by his superior 
wisdom, yet being now called forth into action 
by the peril of her honoured husband's friend, 
she did nothing doubt her own powers, and by 
the sole guidance of her own true and perfect 
judgment, at once resolved to go herself to 
Venice, and speak in Anthonio's defence. 

Portia had a relation who was a counsellor 
in the law; to this gentleman, whose name 
was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case to 
him, desired his opinion, and that with his 
advice he would also send her the dress worn 
by a counsellor. When the messenger re- 
turned, he brought letters from Bellario of 
advice how to proceed, and also everything 
necessary for her equipment. 

Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa 
in men's apparel, and putting on the robes of a 
counsellor, she took Nerissa along with her 
as her clerk; and setting out immediately, 
they arrived at Venice on the very day of the 
trial. The cause was just going to be heard 
before the duke and senators of Venice in the 
senate-house, when Portia entered this high 
court of justice, and presented a letter from 
Bellario, in which that learned counsellor 
wrote to the duke, saying, he would have come 
himself to plead for Anthonio, but that he was 
prevented by sickness, and he requested that 
the learned young doctor Balthasar (so he 



called Portia) might be permitted to plead in 
his stead. This the duke granted, much won- 
dering at the youthful appearance of the 
stranger, who was prettily disguised by her 
counsellor's robes and her large wig. 

And now began this important trial. Portia 
looked around her, and she saw the merciless 
Jew ; and she saw Bassanio, but he knew her 
not in her disguise. He was standing beside 
Anthonio, in an agony of distress and fear for 
his friend. 

The importance of the arduous task Portia 
had engaged in, gave this tender lady courage, 
and she boldly proceeded in the duty she had 
undertaken to perform ; and first of all she 
addressed herself to Shylock ; and allowing 
that he had a right by the Venetian law to 
have the forfeit expressed in the bond, she 
spoke so sweetly of the noble quality of mercy, 
as would have softened any heart, but the un- 
feeling Shylock's ; saying, that it dropped as 
the gentle rain from heaven upon the place 
beneath ; and how mercy was a double blessing, 
it blessed him that gave, and him that received 
it ; and how it became monarchs better than 
their crowns, being an attribute of God him- 
self ; and that earthly power came nearest to 
God's in proportion as mercy tempered justice: 
and she bid Shylock remember that as we all 
pray for mercy, that same prayer should teach 
us to show mercy. Shylock only answered her 
by desiring to have the penalty forfeited in 
the bond. " Is he not able to pay the money ?" 
asked Portia. Bassanio then offered the Jew 
the payment of the three thousand ducats as 
many times over as he should desire ; which 
Shylock refusing, and still insisting upon 
having a pound of Anthonio's flesh, Bassanio 
begged the learned young counsellor would 
endeavour to wrest the law a little, to save 
Anthonio's life. But Portia gravely answered 
that laws once established must never be 
altered. Shylock hearing Portia say that the 
law might not be altered, it seemed to him that 
she was pleading in his favour, and he said, " A 
Daniel is come to judgment ! O wise young 
judge, how I do honour you ! How much elder 
are you than your looks ! " 

Portia now desired Shylock to let her look 
at the bond ; and when she had read it, she 
said, " This bond is forfeited, and by this the 
Jew may lawfully claim a pound of flesh, to be 
by him cut off nearest Anthonio's heart." 
Then she said to Shylock, " Be merciful ; take 
the money, and bid me tear the bond." But 
no mercy would the cruel Shylock show ; and 
he said, " By my soul I swear, there is no 
power in the tongue of man to alter me." 
" Why then, Anthonio," said Portia, " you 
must prepare your bosom for the knife :" and 
while Shylock was sharpening a long knife 
with great eagerness to cut off the pound of 
flesh, Portia said to Anthonio, " Have you any- 
thing to say ?" Anthonio with a calm resigna- 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 



33 



tion replied, that he had but little to say, for 
that he had prepared his mind for death . Then 
he said to Bassanio, "Give me your hand, 
Bassanio ! Fare you well ! Grieve not that I 
am fallen into this misfortune for you . Com- 
mend me to your honourable wife, and tell her 
how I have loved you ! " Bassanio in the deepest 
affliction replied, " Anthonio, I am married to 
a wife, who is as dear to me as life itself ; but 
life itself, my wife and all the world, are not 
esteemed with me above your life : I would 
lose all, I would sacrifice all to this devil here, 
to deliver you." 

Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted 
lady was not at all offended with her husband 
for expressing the love he owed to so true a 
friend as Anthonio in these strong terms, yet 
could not help answering, "Your wife would 
give you little thanks, if she were present, to 
hear you make this offer." And then Gratiano, 
who loved to copy what his lord did, thought 
he must make a speech like Bassanio's, and he 
s^id, in Nerissa's hearing, who was writing in 
her clerk's dress by the side of Portia, " I have 
a wife, whom I protest I love ; I wish she 
were in heaven, if she could but entreat some 
power there to change the cruel temper of this 
currish Jew." " It is well you wish this 
behind her back, else you would have but an 
unquiet house," said Nerissa. 

Shylock now cried out impatienly, "We 
trifle time; I pray pronounce the sentence." 
And now all was awful expectation in the 
court, and every heart was full of grief for 
Anthonio. 

Portia asked, if the scales were ready to 
weigh the flesh ; and she said to the Jew, 
" Shylock, you must have some surgeon by, lest 
he bleed to death." Shylock, whose whole 
intent was that Anthonio should bleed to 
death, said, " It is not so named in the bond." 
Portia replied, " It is not so named in the 
bond, but what of that ? It were good you did 
so much for charity." To this, all the answer 
Shylock would make was, " I cannot find it ; 
it is not in the bond." " Then," said Portia, 
"a pound of Anthonio's flesh is thine. The 
law allows it, and the court awards it. And 
you may cut this flesh from off his breast. 
The law allows it and the court awards it." 
Again Shylock exclaimed, "O wise and upright 
judge ! A Daniel is come to judgment ! " And 
then he sharpened his long knife again, and 
looking eagerly on Anthonio, he said, " Come, 
prepare ! " 

" Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia ; " there 
is something else. This bond here gives you 
no drop of blood ; the words expressly are, 'a 
pound of flesh.' If in the cutting off the pound 
of flesh you shed one drop of Christian blood, 
your land and goods are by the law to be confis- 
cated to the state of Venice." Now as it was 
utterly impossible for Shylock to cut off the 
pound of flesh without shedding some of Antho- 



nio's blood, this wise discovery of Portia's, that 
it was flesh and not blood that was named in 
the bond, saved the life of Anthonio ; and all 
admiring the wonderful sagacity of the young 
counsellor, who had so happily thought of this 
expedient, plaudits resounded from every part 
of the senate-house ; and Gratiano exclaimed, in 
the words which Shylock had used, " O wise 
and upright judge ! mark, Jew, a Daniel is 
come to judgment ! " 

Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel 
intent, said with a disappointed look, that he 
would take the money ; and Bassanio, rejoiced 
beyond measure at Anthonio's unexpected 
deliverance, cried out, " Here is the money ! " 
But Portia stopped him, saying, " Softly ; there 
is no haste ; the Jew shall have nothing but the 
penalty ; therefore prepare, Shylock, to cut off 
the flesh ; but mind you shed no blood ; nor do 
not cut off more nor less than just a pound ; be 
it more or less by one poor scruple, nay if the 
scale turn but by the weight of a single hair, 
you are condemned by the laws of Venice to 
die, and all your wealth is forfeited to the 
senate." "Give me my money, and let me 
go," said Shylock. "I have it ready," said 
Bassanio : " Here it is." 

Shylock was going to take the money, when 
Portia again stopped him, saying, " Tarry, 
Jew ; I have yet another hold upon you. By 
the laws of Venice, your wealth is forfeited to 
the state, for having conspired against the life 
of one of its citizens, and your life lies at the 
mercy of the duke ; therefore down on your 
knees, and ask him to pardon you." 

The duke then said to Shylock, " That you 
may see the difference of our Christian spirit, 
I pardon you your life before you ask it ; half 
your wealth belongs to Anthonio, the other 
half comes to the state." 

The generous Anthonio then said, that he 
would give up his share of Shylock's wealth if 
Shylock would sign a deed to make it over at 
his death to his daughter and her husband ; for 
Anthonio knew that the Jew had an only 
daughter, who had lately married against his 
consent to a young Christian, named Lorenzo, 
a friend of Anthonio's, which had so offended 
Shylock, that he had disinherited her. 

The Jew agreed to this : and being thus 
disappointed in his revenge, and despoiled of 
his riches, he said, " I am ill. Let me go 
home ; send the deed after me, and I will sign 
over half my riches to my daughter." " Get 
thee gone, then," said the duke, " and sign it ; 
and if you repent your cruelty and turn 
Christian, the state will forgive you the fine of 
the other half of your riches." 

The duke now released Anthonio, and dis- 
missed the court. He then highly praised the 
wisdom and ingenuity of the young counsellor, 
and invited him home to dinner. Portia, who 
meant to return to Belmont before her hus- 
band, replied, " I humbly thank your grace, 



34 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



but I must away directly." The duke said he 
was sorry he had not leisure to stay and dine 
with him ; and, turning to Anthonio, he added, 
" Reward this gentleman ; for in my mind you 
are much indebted to him." 

The duke and his senators left the court; and 
thenBassanio said to Portia, "Most worthy gen- 
tleman, I and my friend Anthonio have by your 
wisdom been this day acquitted of grievous 
penalties, and I beg you will accept of the 
three thousand ducats due unto the Jew." 
" And we shall stand indebted to you over and 
above," said Anthonio, " in love and service 
evermore." 

Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept 
the money ; but upon Bassanio still pressing 
her to accept of some reward, she said, " Give 
me your gloves ; I will wear them for your 
sake : " and then Bassanio taking off his gloves, 
she espied the ring which she had given him 
upon his finger : now it was the ring the wily 
lady wanted to get from him to make a merry 
jest when she saw her Bassanio again, that 
made her ask him for his gloves ; and she said, 
when she saw the ring, " And for your love I 
will take this ring from you." Bassanio was 
sadly distressed, that the counsellor should ask 
him for the only thing he could not part with, 
and he replied in great confusion, that he 
could not give him that ring, because it was 
his wife's gift,'and he had vowed never to 
part with it ; but that he would give him the 
most valuable ring in Venice, and find it out 
by proclamation. On this Portia affected to 
be affronted, and left the court saying, " You 
teach me, sir, how a beggar should be an- 
swered." 

" Dear Bassanio," said Anthonio, " let him 
have the ring ; let my love and the great ser- 
vice he has done for me be valued against your 
wife's displeasure." Bassanio, ashamed to ap- 
pear so ungrateful, yielded, and sent Gratiano 
after Portia with the ring ; and then the 
cleric Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano a 
ring, she begged his ring, and Gratiano (not 
choosing to be outdone in generosity by his 
lord) gave it to her. And there was laugh- 
ing among these ladies to think, when they 
got home, how they would tax their husbands 
with giving away their rings, and swear that 
they had given them as a present to some 
woman. 

Portia, when she returned, was in that 
happy temper of mind which never fails to 
attend the consciousness of having performed 
a good action ; her cheerful spirits enjoyed 
everything she saw ; the moon never seemed 
to shine so bright before ; and when that plea- 
sant moon was hid behind a cloud, then a light 
which she saw from her house at Belmont, as 
well pleased her charmed fancy, and she said 
to Nerissa, " That light we see is burning in 
my hall ; how far that little candle throws its 
beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty 



world : " and hearing the sound of music from 
her house, she said, " Methinks that music 
sounds much sweeter than by day." 

And now Portia and Nerissa entered the 
house ; and, dressing themselves in their own 
apparel, they awaited the arrival of their hus- 
bands, who soon followed them with Anthonio, 
and Bassanio presenting his dear friend to the 
lady Portia, the congratulations and welcom- 
ings of that lady were hardly over, when they 
perceived Nerissa and her husband quarrelling 
in a corner of the room. " A quarrel already?" 
said Portia. " What is the matter ? " Gra- 
tiano replied, " Lady, it is about a paltry gilt 
ring that Nerissa gave me, with words upon it 
like the poetry on a cutler's knife ; ' Love me 
and leave me not? " 

" What does the poetry or the value of the 
ring signify ? " said Nerissa. " You swore to 
me, when I gave it to you, that you would keep 
it till the hour of death ; and now you say you 
gave it to the lawyer's clerk. I know you gave 
it to a woman." " By this hand," replied Gra- 
tiano, " I gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a 
little scrubbed boy no higher than yourself ; 
he was clerk to the young counsellor, that by 
his wise pleading saved Anthonio's life : this 
prating boy begged it for a fee, and I could 
not for my life deny him." Portia said, " You 
were to blame, Gratiano, to part with your 
wife's first gift. I gave my lord Bassanio a 
ring, and I am sure he would not part with it 
for all the world." Gratiano in excuse for his 
fault now said, "My lord Bassanio gave his 
ring away to the counsellor, and then the boy, 
his clerk, that took some pains in writing, he 
begged my ring." 

Portia hearing this, seemed very angry, and 
reproached Bassanio for giving away her ring ; 
and she said, Nerissa had taught her what to 
believe, and that she knew some woman had the 
ring. Bassanio was very unhappy to have so 
offended his dear lady, and he said with great 
earnestness, " No, by my honour,no woman had 
it,but a civil doctor, who refused three thousand 
ducats of me, and begged the ring, which when 
I denied him he went displeased away. What 
could I do, sweet Portia ? I was so beset with 
shame for my seeming ingratitude, that I was 
forced to send the ring after him. Pardon me, 
good lady ; had you been there, I think you 
would have begged the ring of me to give the 
worthy doctor." 

" Ah ! " said Anthonio, " I am the unhappy 
cause of these quarrels." 

Portia bid Anthonio not to grieve at that, 
for that he was welcome notwithstanding ; 
and then Anthonio said, " I once did lend my 
body for Bassanio's sake ; and but for him to 
whom your husband gave the ring, I should 
have now been dead. I dare be bound again, 
my soul upon the forfeit, your lord will never 
more break his faith with you." " Then you 
shall be his surety," said Portia ; " give him 



CYMBELINE. 



35 



this ring, and bid him keep it better than the 
other." 

When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was 
strangely surprised to find it was the same he 
gave away; and then Portia told him, how 
she was the young counsellor, and Nerissa 
was her clerk ; and Bassanio found, to his un- 
speakable wonder and delight, that it was by 
the noble courage and wisdom of his wife that 
Anthonio's life was saved. 

And Portia again welcomed Anthonio, and 
gave him letters which by some chance had 



fallen into her hands, which contained an ac- 
count of Anthonio's ships, that were supposed 
lost, being safely arrived in the harbour. So 
these tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's 
story were all forgotten in the unexpected 
good fortune which ensued; and there was 
leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of 
the rings, and the husbands that did not know 
their own wives : Gratiano merrily swearing, 
in a sort of rhyming speech, that 

while he liv'd, he'd fear no other thing 

So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. 



CYMBELINE. 



During the time of Augustus Caesar, empe- 
ror of Rome, there reigned in England (which 
was then called Britain) a king whose name 
was Cymbeline. 

Cymbeline's first wife died when his three 
children (two sons and a daughter) were very 
young. Imogen, the eldest of these children, 
was brought up in her father's court ; but by 
a strange chance the two sons of Cymbeline 
were stolen out of their nursery, when the eldest 
was but three years of age, and the youngest 
quite an infant : and Cymbeline could never 
discover what was become of them or by whom 
they were conveyed away. 

Cymbeline was twice married : his second 
wife was a wicked plotting woman, and a cruel 
step-mother to Imogen, Cymbeline's daughter 
by his first wife. 

The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet 
wished her to marry a son of her own by a 
former husband (she also having been twice 
married) ; for by this means she hoped upon 
the death of Cymbeline to place the crown of 
Britain upon the head of her son Cloten ; for 
she knew that, if the king's sons were not 
found, the princess Imogen must be the king's 
heir. But this design was prevented by Imo- 
gen herself, who married without the consent 
or even knowledge of her father or the 
queen. 

Posthumus (for that was the name of Imo- 
gen's husband) was the best scholar and most 
accomplished gentleman of that age. His 
father died fighting in the wars for Cymbeline, 
and soon after his birth his mother died also 
for grief at the loss of her husband. 

Cymbeline pitying the helpless state of this 
orphan, took Posthumus (Cymbeline having 
given him that name, because he was born 
after his father's death), and educated him in 
his own court. 

Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by 
the same masters, and were play-fellows from 
their infancy ; they loved each other tenderly 



when they were children, and their affection 
continuing to increase with their years, when 
they grew up they privately married. 

The disappointed queen soon learnt this 
secret, for she kept spies constantly in watch 
upon the actions of her daughter-in-law, and 
she immediately told the king of the marriage 
of Imogen with Posthumus. 

Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbe- 
line, when he heard that his daughter had been 
so forgetful of her high dignity as to marry a 
subject. He commanded Posthumus to leave 
Britain, and banished him from his native 
country for ever. 

The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen 
for the grief she suffered at losing her husband, 
offered to procure them a private meeting, 
before Posthumus set out on his journey to 
Rome, which place he had chosen for his resi- 
dence in his banishment ; this seeming kind- 
ness she showed, the better to succeed in her 
future designs in regard to her son Cloten ; for 
she meant to persuade Imogen, when her hus- 
band was gone, that her marriage was not law- 
ful, being contracted without the consent of 
the king. 

Imogen and Posthumus took a most affec- 
tionate leave of each other. Imogen gave her 
husband a diamond ring which had been her 
mother's, and Posthumus promised never to 
part with the ring ; and he fastened a bracelet 
on the arm of his wife, which he begged she 
would preserve with great care as a token 
of his love. They then bid each other fare- 
well, with many vows of everlasting love and 
fidelity. 

Imogen remained a solitary and dejected 
lady in her father's court, and Posthumus 
arrived at Rome, the place he had chosen for 
his banishment. 

Posthumus fell into company at Rome with 
some gay young men of different nations, who 
were talking freely of ladies, each one praising 
the ladies of his own country, and his own 



36 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



mistress. Posthumus, who had ever his own 
dear lady in his mind, affirmed that his wife, 
the fair Imogen, was the most virtuous, wise, 
and constant lady in the world. 

One of these gentlemen, whose name was 
Iachimo, being offended that a lady of Britain 
should be so praised above the Roman ladies, 
his country-women, provoked Posthumus, by 
seeming to doubt the constancy of his so 
highly-praised wife ; and at length, after much 
altercation, Posthumus consented to a proposal 
of lachimo's, that he (Iachimo) should go to 
Britain, and endeavour to gain the love of the 
married Imogen. They then laid a wager, 
that if Iachimo did not succeed in this wicked 
design, he was to forfeit a large sum of money; 
but if he could win Imogen's favour, and pre- 
vail upon her to give him the bracelet which 
Posthumus had so earnestly desired she would 
keep as a token of his love, then the wager was 
to terminate with Posthumus giving to Iachi- 
mo the ring, which was Imogen's love-present 
when she parted with her husband. Such firm 
faith had Posthumus in the fidelity of Imogen, 
that he thought he ran no hazard in this trial 
of her honour. 

Iachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained 
admittance and a courteous welcome from 
Imogen, as a friend of her husband ; but when 
he began to make professions of love to her, 
she repulsed him with disdain, and he soon 
found that he could have no hope of succeeding 
in his dishonourable design. 

The desire Iachimo had to win the wager, 
made him now have recourse to a stratagem to 
impose upon Posthumus, and for this purpose 
he bribed some of Imogen's attendants, and 
was by them conveyed into her bed-chamber, 
concealed in a large trunk, where he re- 
mained shut up till Imogen was retired to rest, 
and had fallen asleep ; and then getting out of 
the trunk, he examined the chamber with 
great attention, and wrote down everything he 
saw there, and particularly noticed a mole 
which he observed upon Imogen's neck, and 
then softly unloosing the bracelet from her 
arm, which Posthumus had given to her, he 
retired into the chest again ; and the next day 
he set off for Rome with great expedition, and 
boasted to Posthumus that Imogen had given 
him the bracelet, and likewise permitted him 
to pass a night in her chamber ; and in this 
manner Iachimo told his false tale : " Her bed- 
chamber," said he, " was hung with tapestry of 
silk and silver, the story was ' the proud Cleo- 
patra, when she met her Anthony,' a piece of 
work most bravely wrought." 

" This is true," said Posthumus : " but this 
you might have heard spoken of without see- 
ing." 

" Then the chimney," said Iachimo, " is south 
of the chamber, and the chimney-piece is 
e Diana bathing ;' never saw I figures livelier 
expressed." 



"This is a thing you might have likewise 
heard," said Posthumus, " for it is much talked 
of." 

Iachimo as accurately described the roof of 
the chamber, and added, " I had almost forgot 
her andirons, they were ' two winking Cupids ' 
made of silver, each on one foot standing." He 
then took out the bracelet, and said, " Know 
you this jewel, sir ? She gave me this. She 
took it from her arm, I see her yet : her pretty 
action did out-sell her gift, and yet enriched it 
too. She gave it me, and said she prised it once" 
He last of all described the mole he had ob- 
served upon her neck. 

Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this 
artful recital in an agony of doubt, now broke 
out into the most passionate exclamations 
against Imogen. He delivered up the diamond 
ring to Iachimo, which he had agreed to for- 
feit to him, if he obtained the bracelet from 
Imogen. 

Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to 
Pisanio, a gentleman of Britain, who was one 
of Imogen's attendants, and had long been a 
faithful friend to Posthumus ; and after tell- 
ing him what proof he had of his wife's dis- 
loyalty, he desired Pisanio would take Imogen 
to Milford-Haven, a seaport of Wales, and 
there kill her. And at the same time he 
wrote a deceitful letter to Imogen, desiring 
her to go with Pisanio, for that finding he 
could live no longer without seeing her, though 
he was forbidden upon pain of death to return 
to Britain, he would come to Milford-Haven, at 
which place he begged she would meet him. 
She, good unsuspecting lady, who loved her 
husband above all things, and desired more 
than her life to see him, hastened her depar- 
ture with Pisanio, and the same night she re- 
ceived the letter she set out. 

When their journey was nearly at an end, 
Pisanio, who, though faithful to Posthumus, 
was not faithful to serve him in an evil deed, 
disclosed to Imogen the cruel order he had 
received. 

Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving 
and beloved husband, found herself doomed 
by that husband to suffer death, was afflicted 
beyond measure. 

Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and 
wait with patient fortitude for the time when 
Posthumus should see and repent his injustice : 
in the mean time, as she refused in her distress 
to return to her father's court, he advised her 
to dress herself in boy's clothes for more 
security in travelling ; to which advice she 
agreed, and thought in that disguise she would 
go over to Rome, and see her husband, whom, 
though he had used her so barbarously, she 
could not forget to love. 

When Pisanio had provided her with her 
new apparel, he left her to her uncertain for- 
tune, being obliged to return to court ; but 
before he departed he gave her a phial of 



CYMBELINE. 



37 



cordial, which he said the queen had given him 
as a sovereign remedy in all disorders. 

The queen, who hated Pisanio because he 
was a friend to Imogen and Posthumus, gave 
him this phial, which she supposed to contain 
poison, she having ordered her physician to 
give her some poison to try its effects (as she 
said) upon animals : but the physician, knowing 
her malicious disposition, would not trust her 
with real poison, but gave her a drug which 
would do no other mischief than causing a 
person to sleep with every appearance of death 
for a few hours. This mixture, which Pisanio 
thought a choice cordial, he gave to Imogen, 
desiring her, if she found herself ill upon the 
road, to take it; and so, with blessings and 
prayers for her safety and happy deliverance 
from her undeserved troubles, he left her. 

Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps 
to the dwelling of her two brothers, who had 
been stolen away in their infancy. Bellarius 
who stole them away, was a lord in the court 
of Cymbeline, and having been falsely accused 
to the king of treason, and banished from the 
court, in revenge he stole away the two sons 
of Cymbeline, and brought them up in a forest, 
where he lived concealed in a cave. He stole 
them through revenge, but he soon loved them 
as tenderly as if they had been his own children, 
educated them carefully, and they grew up 
fine youths, their princely spirits leading them 
to bold and daring actions ; and as they sub- 
sisted by hunting, they were active and hardy, 
and were always pressing their supposed 
father to let them seek their fortune in the 
wars. 

At the cave where these youths dwelt it was 
Imogen's fortune to arrive. She had lost her 
way in a large forest, through which her road 
lay to Milford-Haven (from whence she meant 
to embark for Rome) ; and being unable to 
find any place where she could ^purchase food, 
she was with weariness and hunger almost 
dying ; for it is not merely putting on a man's 
apparel that will enable a young lady, tenderly 
brought up, to bear the fatigue of wandering 
about lonely forests like a man. Seeing this 
cave she entered, hoping to find some one 
within of whom she could procure food. She 
found the cave empty, but looking about she 
discovered some cold meat, and her hunger 
was so pressing, that she could not wait for an 
invitation, but sat down and began to eat. 
" Ah ! " said she, talking to herself ; " I see a 
man's life is a tedious one : how tired am I ! 
for two nights together I have made the ground 
my bed ; my resolution helps me, or I should 
be sick. When Pisanio showed me Milford- 
Haven from the mountain-top, how near it 
seemed ! " Then the thoughts of her husband 
and his cruel mandate came across her, and 
she said, " My dear Posthumus, thou art a 
false one !" 

The two brothers of Imogen, who had been 



hunting with their reputed father Bellarius, 
were by this time returned home. Bellarius 
had given them the names of Polidore and 
Cadwal, and they knew no better, but supposed 
that Bellarius was their father : but the real 
names of these princes were Guiderius and 
Arviragus. 

Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing 
Imogen, stopped them, saying, " Come not in 
yet ; it eats our victuals, or I should think that 
it was a fairy." 

" What is the matter, sir?" said the young 
men. " By Jupiter," said Bellarius again, 
a there is an angel in the cave, or if not, an 
earthly paragon." So beautiful did Imogen 
look in her boy's apparel. 

She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth 
from the cave, and addressed them in these 
words : " Good masters, do not harm me ; 
before I entered your cave, I had thought to 
have begged or bought what I have eaten. 
Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, 
though I had found gold strewed on the floor. 
Here is money for my meat, which I would 
have left on the board when I had made my 
meal, and parted with prayers for the provider." 
They refused her money with great earnestness. 
" I see you are angry with me ;" said the timid 
Imogen : " but, sirs, if you kill me for my fault, 
know that I should have died if I had not 
made it." 

" Whither are you bound ?" asked Bellarius, 
" and what is your name?" 

" Fidele is my name," answered Imogen. 
" I have a kinsman, who is bound for Italy ; 
he embarked at Milford-Haven, to whom being 
going, almost spent with hunger, I am fallen 
into this offence." 

" Prithee, fair youth," said old Bellarius, 
" do not think us churls, nor measure our good 
minds by this rude place we live in. You are 
well encountered ; it is almost night. You 
shall have better cheer before you depart, and 
thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him 
welcome." 

The gentle youths, her brothers, then wel- 
comed Imogen to their cave with many kind 
expressions, saying they would love her (or, as 
they said, him) as a brother ; and they entered 
the cave, where (they having killed venison 
when they were hunting) Imogen delighted 
them with her neat housewifery, assisting 
them in preparing their supper ; for though it 
is not the custom now for young women of 
high birth to understand cookery, it was then, 
and Imogen excelled in this useful art ; and, 
as her , brothers prettily expressed it, Fidele 
cut their roots in characters, and sauced their 
broth, as if Juno had been sick, and Fidele 
were her dieter. "And then," said Polidore 
to his brother, " how angel-like he sings ! " 

They also remarked to each other, that 
though Fidele smiled so sweetly, yet so sad a 
melancholy did overcloud his lovely face, as if 



38 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



grief and patience had together taken posses- 
sion of him. 

For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it 
was their near relationship, though they knew 
it not) Imogen (or as the boys called her, 
Fldele) became the doting-piece of her brothers, 
and she scarcely less loved them, thinking that 
but for the memory of her dear Posthumus, 
she could live and die in the cave with these 
wild forest-youths ; and she gladly consented 
to stay with them, till she was enough rested 
from the fatigue of travelling to pursue her 
way to Milford-Haven. 

When the venison they had taken was all 
eaten, and they were going out to hunt for 
more, Fidele could not accompany them, 
because she was unwell. Sorrow, no doubt, 
for her husband's cruel usage, as well as the 
fatigue of wandering in the forest, was the 
cause of her illness. 

They then bid her farewell, and went to 
their hunt, praising all the way the noble 
parts and graceful demeanour of the youth 
Fidele. 

Imogen was no sooner left alone than she 
recollected the cordial Pisanio had given her, 
and drank it off, and presently fell into a sound 
and death-like sleep. 

When Bellarius and her brothers returned 
from hunting, Polidore went first into the cave, 
and supposing her asleep, pulled off his heavy 
shoes, that he might tread softly and not awake 
her ; so did true gentleness spring up in the 
minds of these princely foresters : but he soon 
discovered that she could not be awakened by 
any noise, and concluded her to be dead, and 
Polidore lamented over her with dear and 
brotherly regret, as if they had never from 
their infancy been parted. 

Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into 
the forest, and there celebrate her funeral with 
songs and solemn dirges, as was then the 
custom. 

Imogen's two brothers then carried her to a 
shady covert, and there laying her gently on 
the grass, they sang repose to her departed 
spirit, and covering her over with leaves and 
flowers, Polidore said, "While summer lasts 
and I live here, Fidele, I will daily strew thy 
sad grave. The pale primrose, that flower 
most like thy face ; the blue-bell, like thy clear 
veins ; and the leaf of eglantine, which is not 
sweeter than was thy breath ; all these will I 
strew over thee. Yea, and the furred moss in 
winter, when there are no flowers to cover thy 
sweet corse." 

When they had finished her funeral obse- 
quies, they departed very sorrowful. 

Imogen had not been long left alone, when, 
the effect of the sleepy drug going off, she 
awaked, and easily shaking off the slight cover- 
ing of leaves and flowers they had thrown over 
her, she arose, and imagining she had been 
dreaming, she said, fi I thought I was a cave- 



keeper and cook to honest creatures ; how came 
I here, covered with flowers ?" Not being able 
to find her way back to the cave, and seeing 
nothing of her new companions, she concluded 
it was certainly all a dream ; and once more 
Imogen set out on her weary pilgrimage, 
hoping at last she should find her way to 
Milford-Haven, and thence get a passage in 
some ship bound for Italy ; for all her thoughts 
were still with her husband Posthumus, whom 
she intended to seek in the disguise of a page. 

But great events were happening at this 
time, of which Imogen knew nothing ; for a 
war had suddenly broken out between the 
Roman emperor Augustus Caesar, and Cym- 
beline the king of Britain : and. a Roman 
army had landed to invade Britain, and was 
advanced into the very forest over which 
Imogen was journeying. With this army 
came Posthumus. 

Though Posthumus came over to Britain 
with the Roman army, he did not mean to 
fight on their side against his own country- 
men, but intended to join the army of Britain, 
and fight in the cause of his king who had 
banished him. . 

He still believed Imogen false to him ; yet 
the death of her he had so fondly loved, and 
by his own orders too (Pisanio having written 
him a letter to say he had obeyed his command 
and that Imogen was dead), sat heavy on his 
heart, and therefore he returned to Britain, 
desiring either to be slain in battle, or to be 
put to death by Cymbeline for returning home 
from banishment. 

Imogen, before she reached Milford-Haven, 
fell into the hands of the Roman army ; and 
her presence and deportment recommending 
her, she was made a page to Lucius the Roman 
general. 

Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet 
the enemy, and when they entered this forest, 
Polidore and Cadwal joined the king's army. 
The young men were eager to engage in acts 
of valour, though they little thought they were 
going to fight for their own royal father ; and 
old Bellarius went with them to the battle. 
He had long since repented of the injury he 
had done to Cymbeline in carrying away his 
sons ; and having been a warrior in his youth, 
he gladly joined the army to fight for the king 
he had so injured. 

And now a great battle commenced between 
the two armies, and the Britons would have 
been defeated, and Cymbeline himself killed, 
but for the extraordinary valour of Posthumus 
and Bellarius, and the two sons of Cymbeline. 
They rescued the king, and saved his life, and 
so entirely turned the fortune of the day, that 
the Britons gained the victory. 

When the battle was over, Posthumus, who 
had not found the death he sought for, surren- 
dered himself up to one of the officers of Cym- 
beline, willing to suffer the death which was to 



CYMBELINE. 



39 



be his punishment if he returned from banish- 
ment. 

Imogen and the master she served were 
taken prisoners, and brought before Cymbeline, 
as was also her old enemy Iachimo, who was 
an officer in the Roman army ; and when these 
prisoners were before the king, Posthumus 
was brought in to receive his sentence of 
death ; and at this strange juncture of time, 
Bellarius with Polidore and Cadwal were also 
brought before Cymbeline to receive the re- 
wards due to the great services they had by 
their valour done for the king. Pisanio being 
one of the king's attendants, was likewise 
present. 

Therefore there were now standing in the 
king's presence (but with very different hopes 
and fears) Posthumus, and Imogen, with her 
new master the Roman general ; the faithful 
servant Pisanio, and the false friend Iachimo ; 
and likewise the two lost sons of Cymbeline, 
with Bellarius who had stolen them away. 

The Roman general was the first who spoke ; 
the rest stood silent before the king, though 
there was many a beating heart among them. 

Imogen saw Posthumus and knew him, 
though he was in the disguise of a peasant ; 
but he did not know her in her male attire : 
and she knew Iachimo, and she saw a ring on 
his finger which she perceived to be her own, 
but she did not know him as yet to have been 
the author of all her troubles : and she stood 
before her own father a prisoner of war. 

Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who 
had dressed her in the garb of a boy. " It is 
my mistress," thought he ; " since she is living, 
let the time run on to good or bad." Bellarius 
knew her too, and softly said to Cadwal, " Is 
not this boy revived from death?" "One 
sand," replied Cadwal, " does not more resem- 
ble another than that sweet rosy lad is like the 
dead Fidele." " The same dead thing alive," 
said Polidore. " Peace, peace," said Bellarius ; 
" if it were he, I am sure he would have 
spoken to us." " But we saw him dead," again 
whispered Polidore. " Be silent," replied Bel- 
larius. 

Posthumus waited in silence to hear the 
welcome sentence of his own death ; and he 
resolved not to disclose to the king that he 
had saved his life in the battle, lest that should 
move Cymbeline to pardon him. 

Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken 
Imogen under his protection as his page, was 
the first (as has been before said) who spoke to 
the king. He was a man of high courage and 
noble dignity, and this was his speech to the 
king : 

" I hear you take no ransom for your prison- 
ers, but doom them all to death ; I am a 
Roman, and with a Roman heart will suffer 
death. But there is one thing for which I 
would intreat.'' Then bringing Imogen before 
the king, he said, " This boy is a Briton born. 



Let him be ransomed. He is my page. Never 
master had a page so kind, so duteous, so diligent 
on all occasions, so true, so nurse-like. He 
hath done no Briton wrong, though he hath 
served a Roman. Save him, if you spare no 
one beside." 

Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter 
Imogen. He knew her not in that disguise ; 
but it seemed that all-powerful Nature spake 
in his heart, for he said, " I have surely seen 
him, his face appears familiar to me. I know 
not why or wherefore I say, Live, boy : but I 
give you your life, and ask of me what boon 
you will, and I will grant ' fc it you. Yea, even 
though it be the life of the noblest prisoner I 
have." 

"I humbly thank your highness," said 
Imogen. 

"What was then called granting a boon was 
the same as a promise to give any one thing, 
whatever it might be, that the person on whom 
that favour was conferred chose to ask for. 
They all were attentive to hear what thing the 
page would ask for, and Lucius her master said 
to her, " I do not beg my life, good lad, but I 
know that is what you will ask for." "No, 
no, alas ! " said Imogen, " I have other work 
in hand, good master ; your life I cannot ask 
for." 

This seeming want of gratitude in the boy, 
astonished the Roman general. 

Imogen then fixing her eye on Iachimo, 
demanded no other boon than this, that Iachi- 
mo should be made to confess whence he had 
the ring he wore on his finger. 

Cymbeline granted her this boon, and 
threatened Iachimo with the torture if he 
did not confess how he came by the diamond 
ring on his finger. 

Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment 
of all his villany, telling, as has been before re- 
lated, the whole story of his wager with Post- 
humus, and how he had succeeded in imposing 
upon his credulity. 

What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof 
of the innocence of his lady cannot be ex- 
pressed. He instantly came forward and con- 
fessed to Cymbeline the cruel sentence which 
be had enjoined Pisanio to execute upon the 
princess ; exclaiming wildly, " Imogen, my 
queen, my life, my wife ! O Imogen, Imogen, 
Imogen !" 

Imogen could not see her beloved husband 
in this distress without discovering herself, to 
the unutterable joy of Posthumus, who was 
thus relieved from a weight of guilt and woe, 
and restored to the good graces of the dear 
lady he had so cruelly treated. 

Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as 
he with joy, at finding his lost daughter so 
strangely recovered, received her to her for- 
mer place in his fatherly affection, and not 
only gave her husband Posthumus his life, but 
consented to acknowledge him for his son-in-law. 



40 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



Bellarius chose this time of joy and recon- 
ciliation to make his confession. He pre- 
sented Polidore and Cadwal to the king, telling 
him they were his two lost sons Guiderius and 
Arviragus. 

Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius : for who 
could think of punishments at a season of such 
universal happiness 1 to find his daughter living, 
and his lost sons in the persons of his young 
deliverers, that he had seen so bravely fight in 
his defence, was unlooked-for joy indeed ! 

Imogen was now at leisure to perform good 
services for her late master, the Roman general 
Lucius, whose life the king her father readily 
granted at her request ; and by the mediation 



of the same Lucius a peace was concluded 
between the Romans and the Britons, which 
was kept inviolate many years. 

How Cymbeline's wicked queen, through 
despair of bringing her projects to pass, and 
touched with remorse of conscience, sickened 
and died, having first lived to see her foolish 
son Cloten slain in a quarrel which he had 
provoked, are events too tragical to interrupt 
this happy conclusion by more than merely 
touching upon. It is sufficient that all were 
made happy who were deserving ; and even 
the treacherous Iachimo, in consideration of 
his villany having missed its final aim, was 
dismissed without punishment. 



KING LEAR. 



Lear, king of Britain, had three daughters ; 
Gonerill, wife to the duke of Albany ; Regan, 
wife to the duke of Cornwall ; and Cordelia, a 
young maid, for whose love the king of France 
and duke of Burgundy were joint suitors, and 
were at this time making stay for that purpose 
in the court of Lear. 

The old king, worn out with age and the 
fatigues of government, he being more than 
fourscore years old, determined to take no 
further part in state affairs, but to leave the 
management to younger strengths, that he 
might have time to prepare for death, which 
must at no long period ensue. "With this in- 
tent he called his three daughters to him, to 
know from their own lips which of them loved 
him best, that he might part his kingdom 
among them in such proportions as their 
affection for him should seem to deserve. 

Gonerill, the eldest, declared that she loved 
her father more than words could give out, 
that he was dearer to her than the light of her 
own eyes, dearer than life and liberty ; with a 
deal of such professing stuff", which is easy to 
counterfeit where there is no real love, only a 
few fine words delivered with confidence being 
wanted in that case. The king, delighted to 
hear from her own mouth this assurance of her 
love, and thinking truly that her heart went with 
it,inafit of fatherly fondness bestowed upon her 
and her husband one third of his ample kingdom. 

Then calling to him his second daughter, he 
demanded what she had to say. Regan, who 
was made of the same hollow metal as her 
sister, was not a whit behind in her professions, 
but rather declared that what her sister had 
spoken came short of the love which she pro- 
fessed to bear for his highness : insomuch that 
she found all other joys dead, in comparison 
with the pleasure which she took in the love of 
her dear king and father. 



Lear blest himself in having such loving 
children, as he thought ; and could do no less, 
after the handsome assurances which Regan 
had made, than bestow a third of his kingdom 
upon her and her husband, equal in size to that 
which he had already given away to Gonerill. 

Then turning to his youngest daughter Cor- 
delia, whom he called his joy, he asked what 
she had to say ; thinking no doubt that she 
would glad his ears with the same loving 
speeches which her sisters had uttered, or 
rather that her expressions would be so much 
stronger than theirs, as she had always been 
his darling, and favoured by him above either 
of them. But Cordelia, disgusted with the 
flattery of her sisters, whose hearts she knew 
werefarfrom their lips,and seeing that all their 
coaxing speeches were only intended to wheedle 
the old king out of his dominions, that they and 
their husbands might reign in his life-time, 
made no other reply but this, that she loved 
his majesty according to her duty, neither 
more nor less. 

The king, shocked with this appearance of 
ingratitude in his favourite child, desired her 
to consider her words, and to mend her speech, 
lest it should mar her fortunes. 

Cordelia then told her father, that he was 
her father, that he had given her breeding, and 
loved her, that she returned those duties back 
as was most fit, and did obey him, love him, 
and most honour him ; but that she could not 
frame her mouth to such large speeches as her 
sisters had done, or promise to love nothing 
else in the world. Why had her sisters hus- 
bands, if (as they said) they had no love for 
anything but their father ? If she should ever 
wed, she was sure the lord to whom she gave 
her hand would want half her love, half of her 
care and duty ; she should never marry, like 
her sisters, to love her father all. 



KING LEAR. 



41 



Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father, 
even almost as extravagantly as her sisters pre- 
tended to do, would have plainly told him so at 
any other time, in more daughter-like and 
loving terms, and without these qualifications, 
which did indeed sound a little ungracious : 
but after the crafty flattering speeches of her 
sisters, which she had seen draw such extra- 
vagant rewards, she thought the handsomest 
thing she could do was to love and be silent. 
This put her affection out of suspicion of mer- 
cenary ends, and showed that she loved, but 
not for gain ; and that her professions, the less 
ostentatious they were, had so much the more 
of truth and sincerity than her sisters'." 

This plainness of speech, which Lear called 
pride, so enraged the old monarch — who in his 
best of times always showed much of spleen 
and rashness, and in whom the dotage incident 
to old age had so clouded over his reason, that 
he could not discern truth from flattery, nor a 
gay painted speech from words that came from 
the heart — that in a fury of resentment he re- 
tracted the third part of his kingdom which 
yet remained, and which he had reserved for 
Cordelia, and gave it away from her, sharing it 
equally between her two sisters, and their 
husbands, the dukes of Albany and Cornwall ; 
whom he now called to him, and in presence of 
all his courtiers, bestowing a coronet between 
them, invested them jointly with all the power, 
revenue, and execution of government, only 
retaining to himself the name of king ; all the 
rest of royalty he resigned : with this reserva- 
tion, that himself, with a hundred knights for 
his attendants, was to be maintained by 
monthly course in each of his daughters' 
palaces in turn. 

So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, 
so little guided by reason, and so much by 
passion, filled all his courtiers with astonish- 
ment and sorrow : but none of them had the 
courage to interpose between this incensed 
king and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, 
who was beginning to speak a good word for 
Cordelia, when the passionate Lear, on pain 
of death, commanded him to desist : but the 
good Kent was not so to be repelled. He had 
been ever loyal to Lear, whom he had honoured 
as a king, loved as a father, followed as a 
master ; and had never esteemed his life 
further than as a pawn to wage against his 
royal master's enemies, nor feared to lose it 
when Lear's safety was the motive ; nor now 
that Lear was most his own enemy did this 
faithful servant of the king forget his old 
principles, but manfully opposed Lear, to do 
Lear good ; and was unmannerly only because 
Lear was mad. He had been a most faithful 
counsellor in times past to the king, and he 
besought him now, that he would see with his 
eyes, (as he had done in many weighty matters,) 
and go by his advice still, and in his best con- 
sideration recall this hideous rashness : for he 



would answer with his life his judgment, that 
Lear's youngest daughter did not love him 
least, nor were those empty-hearted whose low 
sound gave no token of hollo wness. "When 
power bowed to flattery, honour was bound to 
plainness. For Lear's threats, what could he do 
to him, whose life was already at his service ? 
that should not hinder duty from speaking. 

The honest freedom of this good earl of 
Kent only stirred up the king's wrath the 
more, and like a frantic patient who kills his 
physician, and loves his mortal disease, he 
banished this true servant, and allotted him 
but five days to make his preparations for de- 
parture ; but if on the sixth his hated person 
was found within the realm of Britain, that 
moment was to be his death. And Kent bade 
farewell to the king, and said, that since he 
chose to show himself in such fashion, it was 
but banishment to stay there ; and before he 
went, he recommended Cordelia to the pro- 
tection of the gods, the maid who had so rightly 
thought, and so discreetly spoken ; and only 
wished that her sisters' large speeches might be 
answered with deeds of love : and then he 
went, as he said, to shape his old course to a 
new country. 

The king of France and duke of Burgundy 
were now called in to hear the determination 
of Lear about his youngest daughter, and to 
know whether they would persist in their 
courtship to Cordelia, now that she was under 
her father's displeasure, and had no fortune 
but her own person to recommend her. And 
the duke of Burgundy declined the match, and 
would not take her to wife upon such condi- 
tions ; but the king of France, understanding 
what the nature of the fault had been which 
had lost her the love of her father, that it 
was only a tardiness of speech, and the not 
being able to frame her tongue to flattery like 
her sisters, took this young maid by the hand, 
and saying that her virtues were a dowry 
above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take fare- 
well of her sisters, and of her father, though 
he had been unkind, and she should go with 
him, and be queen of him and of fair France, 
and reign over fairer possessions than her 
sisters : and he called the duke of Burgundy 
in contempt a waterish duke, because his love 
for this young maid had in a moment run all 
away like water. 

Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave 
of her sisters, and besought them to love their 
father well, and make good their professions : 
and they sullenly told her not to prescribe to 
them, for they knew their duty, but to strive 
to content her husband, who had taken her (as 
they tauntingly expressed it) as Fortune's 
alms. And ^Cordelia with a heavy heart de- 
parted, for she knew the cunning of her sisters, 
and she wished her father in better hands than 
she was about to leave him in. 

Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the 



42 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



devilish dispositions of her sisters began to 
show themselves in their true colours. Even 
before the expiration of the first month, which 
Lear was to spend by agreement with his 
eldest daughter Gonerill, the old king began 
to find out the difference between promises 
and performances. This wretch having got 
from her father all that he had to bestow, even to 
the giving away of the crown from off his head, 
began to grudge even those small remnants of 
royalty which the old man had reserved to 
himself, to please his fancy with the idea of 
being still a king. She could not bear to see 
him and his hundred knights. Every time she 
met her father, she put on a frowning counte- 
nance ; and when the old man wanted to 
speak with her, she would feign sickness, or 
anything to be rid of the sight of him ; for it 
was plain that she esteemed his old age a 
useless burden, and his attendants an unneces- 
sary expense. Not only she herself slackened 
in her expressions of duty to the king, but by 
her example, (and it is to be feared) not with- 
out her private instructions, her very servants 
affected to treat him with neglect, and would 
either refuse to obey his orders, or still more 
contemptuously pretend not to hear them. 
Lear could not but perceive this alteration in 
the behaviour of his daughter, but he shut his 
eyes against it as long as he could, as people 
commonly are unwilling to believe the un- 
pleasant consequences which their own mis- 
takes and obstinacy have brought upon them. 

True love and fidelity are no more to be 
estranged by ill, than falsehood and hollow- 
heartedness can be conciliated by good usage. 
This eminently appears in the instance of the 
good earl of Kent, who, though banished by 
Lear, and his life made forfeit if he were found 
in Britain, chose to stay and abide all conse- 
quences, as long as there was a chance of his 
being useful to the king his master. See to what 
mean shifts and disguises poor loyalty is forced 
to submit sometimes ; yet it counts nothing 
base or unworthy, so as it can but do service 
where it owes an obligation. In the disguise 
of a serving-man, all his greatness, and pomp 
laid aside, this good earl proffered his services 
to the king, who not knowing him to be Kent 
in that disguise, but pleased with a certain 
plainness, or rather bluntness in his answers 
which the earl put on (so different from that 
smooth oily flattery which he had so much 
reason to be sick of, having found the effects 
not answerable in his daughter), a bargain was 
quickly struck, and Lear took Kent into his 
service by the name of Caius, as he called 
himself, never suspecting him to be his once 
great favourite, the high and mighty earl of 
Kent. 

This Caius quickly found means to show his 
fidelity and love to his royal master ; for 
Gonerill's steward that same day behaving in 
a disrespectful manner to Lear, and giving him 



saucy looks and language, as no doubt he was 
secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, 
Caius not enduring to hear so open an affront 
put upon his majesty, made no more ado but 
presently tripped up his heels, and laid the 
unmannerly slave in the kennel, for which 
friendly service Lear became more and more 
attached to him. 

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In 
his degree, and as far as so insignificant a 
personage could show his love, the poor fool, 
or jester, that had been of his palace while 
Lear had a palace, as it was the custom of 
kings and great personages at that time to keep 
a fool (as he was called) to make them sport 
after serious business. This poor fool clung to 
Lear after he had given away his crown, and 
by his witty sayings would keep up his good- 
humour, though he could not refrain sometimes 
from jeering at his master for his imprudence 
in uncrowning himself, and giving all away to 
his daughters ; at which time as he rhymingly 
expressed it, these daughters 

For sudden joy did weep, 

And he for sorrow sung, 
That such a king should play bo-peep, 

And go the fools among. 

And in such wild^sayings and scraps of songs, 
of which he had plenty, this pleasant honest 
fool poured out his heart even in the presence 
of Gonerill herself, in many a bitter taunt and 
jest which cut to the quick ; such as comparing 
the king to the hedge-sparrow, who feeds the 
young of the cuckoo till they grow old enough, 
and then has its bead bit off for its pains; and 
saying, that an ass may know when the cart 
draws the horse (meaning that Lear's daughters 
that ought to go behind, now ranked before 
their father) ; and that Lear was no longer 
Lear, but the shadow of Lear : for which free 
speeches he was once or twice threatened to be 
whipped. 

The coolness and falling off of respect which 
Lear had begun to perceive, were not all which 
this foolish-fond father was to suffer from his 
unworthy daughter ; she now plainly told him 
that his staying in her palace was inconvenient 
so long as he insisted upon keeping up an 
establishment of a hundred knights ; that this 
establishment was useless and expensive, and 
only served to fill her court with riot and 
feasting ; and she prayed him that he would 
lessen their number and keep none but old 
men about him, such as himself, and fitting his 
age. 

Lear at first could not believe his eyes or 
ears, nor that it was his daughter that spoke so 
unkindly. He could not believe that she who 
had received a crown from him could seek to 
cut off his train, and grudge him the respect 
due to his old age. But she persisting in her 
undutiful demand, the old man's rage was so 
excited, that he called her a detested kite, and 
said that she spoke an untruth : and so indeed 






KING LEAR. 



43 



she did, for the hundred knights were all men 
of choice behaviour and sobriety of manners, 
skilled in all particulars of duty, and not given 
to rioting and feasting as she said. And he 
bid his horses to be prepared, for he would go 
to his other daughter, Regan, he and his hun- 
dred knights : and he spoke of ingratitude, and 
said it was a marble-hearted devil, and showed 
more hideous in a child than the sea-monster. 
And he cursed his eldest daughter Gonerill so 
as was terrible to hear : praying that she might 
never have a child, or, if she had, that it might 
live to return that scorn and contempt upon 
her, which she had shown to him : that she 
might feel how sharper than a serpent's tooth 
it was to have a thankless child. And Gone- 
rill's husband, the duke of Albany, beginning 
to excuse himself for any share which Lear 
might suppose he had in the unkindness, Lear 
would not hear him out, but in a rage ordered 
his horses to be saddled, and set out with his 
followers for the abode of Regan, his other 
daughter. And Lear thought to himself, how 
small the fault of Cordelia (if it was a fault) 
now appeared, in comparison with her sister's, 
and he wept : and then he was ashamed that 
such a creature as Gonerill should have so 
much power over his manhood as to make him 
weep. 

Regan and her husband were keeping their 
court in great pomp and state at their palace : 
and Lear despatched his servant Caius with 
letters to his daughter, that she might be pre- 
pared for his reception, while he and his train 
followed after. But it seems that Gonerill 
had been beforehand with him, sending letters 
also to Regan, accusing her father with way- 
wardness and ill humours, and advising her 
not to receive so great a train as he was bringing 
with him. This messenger arrived at the same 
time with Caius, and Caius and he met : and 
who should it be but Caius's old enemy the 
steward, whom he had formerly tripped up by 
the heels for his saucy behaviour to Lear. 
Caius not liking the fellow's look, and suspecting 
what he came for, began to revile him, and 
challenged him to fight, which the fellow 
refusing, Caius, in a fit of honest passion, beat 
him soundly, as such a mischief-maker and 
carrier of wicked messages deserved : which 
coming to the ears of Regan and her husband, 
they ordered Caius to be put in the stocks, 
though he was a messenger from the king her 
father, and in that character demanded the 
highest respect : so that the first thing the king 
saw when he entered the castle, was his faith- 
ful servant Caius sitting in that disgraceful 
situation. 

This was but a bad omen of the reception 
which he was to expect ; but a worse followed, 
when upon inquiry for his daughter and her 
husband, he was told they were weary with 
travelling all night, and could not see him : 
and when lastly, upon his insisting in a positive 



and angry manner to see them, they came to 
greet him, who should he see in their company 
but the hated Gonerill, who had come to tell 
her own story, and set her sister against the 
king her father ! 

This sight much moved the old man, and 
still more to see Regan take her by the hand : 
and he asked Gonerill if she was not ashamed 
to look upon his old white beard \ And Regan 
advised him to go home again with Gonerill 
and live with her peaceably, dismissing half of 
his attendants, and to ask her forgiveness ; for 
he was old and wanted discretion, and must 
be ruled and led by persons that had more 
discretion than himself. And Lear showed 
how preposterous that would sound, if he were 
to down on his knees, and beg of his own 
daughter for food and raiment, and he argued 
against such an unnatural dependence ; de- 
claring his resolution never to return with her, 
but to stay where he was with Regan, he and 
his hundred knights : for he said that she had 
not forgot the half of the kingdom which he 
had endowed her with, and that her eyes were 
not fierce like Gonerill's, but mild and kind. 
And he said that rather than return to Gonerill, 
with half his train cut off, he would go over to 
France, and beg a wretched pension of the 
king there, who had married his youngest 
daughter without a portion. 

But he was mistaken in expecting kinder 
treatment of Regan than he had experienced 
from her sister Gonerill. As if willing to outdo 
her sister in unfilial behaviour, she declared 
that she thought fifty knights too many to wait 
upon him : that five-and-twenty were enough. 
Then Lear, nigh heart-broken, turned to 
Gonerill, and said that he would go back with 
her, for her fifty doubled five-and-twenty, and 
so her love was twice as much as Regan's. 
But Gonerill excused herself, and said, what 
need of so many as five-and-twenty ? or even 
ten ? or five ? when he might be waited upon 
by her servants or her sister's servants ? So 
these two wicked daughters, as if they strove 
to exceed each other in cruelty to their old 
father who had been so good to them, by little 
and little would have abated him of all his 
train, all respect, (little enough for him that 
once commanded a kingdom), which was left 
him to show that he had once been a king ! 
Not that a splendid train is essential to happi- 
ness, but from a king to a beggar is a hard 
change, from commanding millions to be with- 
out one attendant ; and it was the ingratitude 
in his daughters' denying it, more than what 
he would suffer by the want of it, which pierced 
this poor king to the heart : insomuch that 
with this double ill usage, and vexation for 
having so foolishly given away a kingdom, his 
wits began to be unsettled, and while he said 
he knew not what, he vowed revenge against 
those unnatural hags, and to make examples 
of them that should be a terror to the earth ! 



44 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



"While he was thus idly threatening what 
his weak arm could never execute, night came 
on, and a loud storm of thunder and lightning 
with rain ; and his daughters still persisting in 
their resolution not to admit his followers, he 
called for his horses, and chose rather to en- 
counter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, 
than stay under the same roof with these 
ungrateful daughters : and they, saying that 
the injuries which wilful men procure to them- 
selves are their just punishment, suffered him 
to go in that condition, and shut their doors 
upon him. 

The winds were high, and the rain and storm 
increased, when the old man sallied forth to 
combat with the elements, less sharp than his 
daughters' unkindness. For many miles about 
there was scarce a bush; and there upon a 
heath, exposed to the fury of the storm in a 
dark night, did king Lear wander out, and 
defy the winds and the thunder : and he bid 
the winds to blow the earth into the sea, or 
swell the waves of the sea, till they drowned 
the earth, that no token might remain of any 
such ungrateful animal as man. The old king 
was now left with no other companion than 
the poor fool, who still abided with him, with 
his merry conceits striving to outjest mis- 
fortune, saying, it was but a naughty night to 
swim in, and truly the king had better go in 
and ask his daughters' blessing : 

But he that has a little tiny wit, 
With heigh ho, the wind and the rain ! 
Must make content with his fortunes fit, 
Though the rain it raineth every day : 

and swearing it was a brave night to cool a 
lady's pride. 

Thus poorly accompanied this once great 
monarch was found by his ever-faithful servant 
the good earl of Kent, now transformed to 
Caius, who ever followed close at his side, 
though the king did not know him to be the 
earl ; and he said, " Alas ! sir, are you here ? 
creatures that love night love not such nights 
as these. This dreadful storm has driven the 
beasts to their hiding-places. Man's nature 
cannot endure the affliction or the fear." And 
Lear rebuked him, and said, these lesser evils 
were not felt, where a greater malady was 
fixed. When the mind is at ease, the body has 
leisure to be delicate ; but the tempest in his 
mind did take all feeling else from his senses, 
but of that which beat at his heart. And he 
spoke of filial ingratitude, and said it was all 
one as if the mouth should tear the hand for 
lifting food to it ; for parents were hands and 
food and everything to children. 

But the good Caius still persisting in his 
entreaties that the king would not stay out in 
the open air, at last persuaded him to enter a 
little wretched hovel which stood upon the 
heath, where the fool first entering, suddenly 
ran back terrified, saying that he had seen a 
spirit. But upon examination this spirit proved 



to be nothing more than a poor Bedlam-beggar, 
who had crept into this deserted hovel for 
shelter, and with his talk about devils frighted 
the fool, one of those poor lunatics who are 
either mad, or feign to be so, the better to 
extort charity from the compassionate country- 
people ; who go about the country, calling 
themselves poor Tom and poor Turlygood, 
saying, " Who gives anything to poor Tom ? " 
sticking pins and nails and sprigs of rosemary 
into their arms to make them bleed ; and with 
such horrible actions, partly by prayers, and 
partly with lunatic curses, they move or terrify 
the ignorant country folks into giving them 
alms. This poor fellow was such a one ; and 
the king seeing him in so wretched a plight, 
with nothing but a blanket about his loins to 
cover his nakedness, could not be persuaded 
but that the fellow was some father who had 
given all away to his daughters, and brought 
himself to that pass; for nothing he thought 
could bring a man to such wretchedness but 
the having unkind daughters. 

And from this and many such wild speeches 
which he uttered, the good Caius plainly per- 
ceived that he was not in his perfect mind, but 
that his daughters' ill usage had really made 
him go mad. And now the loyalty of this 
worthy earl of Kent showed itself in more 
essential services than he had hitherto found 
opportunity to perform. For with the assist- 
ance of some of the king's attendants who 
remained loyal, he had the person of his royal 
master removed at day-break to the castle of 
Dover, where his own friends and influence, as 
earl of Kent, chiefly lay ; and himself embarking 
for France, hastened to the court of Cordelia, 
and did there in such moving terms represent 
the pitiful condition of her royal father, and 
set out in such lively colours the inhumanity 
of her sisters, that this good and loving child 
with many tears besought the king her hus- 
band, that he would give her leave to embark 
for England with a sufficient power to subdue 
these cruel daughters and their husbands, and 
restore the old king her father to his throne ; 
which being granted, she set forth, and with a 
royal army landed at Dover. 

Lear having by some chance escaped from 
the guardians which the good earl of Kent had 
put over him to take care of him in his lunacy, 
was found by some of Cordelia's train wan- 
dering about the fields near Dover, in a pitiable 
condition, stark mad and singing aloud to him- 
self, with a crown upon his head which he had 
made of straw and nettles, and other wild 
weeds that he had picked up in the corn-fields. 
By the advice of the physicians, Cordelia, 
though earnestly desirous of seeing her father, 
was prevailed upon to put off the meeting, till 
by sleep and the operation of herbs which they 
gave him, he should be restored to greater 
composure. By the aid of these skilful phy- 
sicians, to whom Cordelia promised all her 



KING LEAR. 



45 



gold and jewels for the recovery of the old 
king, Lear was soon in a condition to see his 
daughter. 

A tender sight it was to see the meeting 
between this father and daughter ; to see the 
struggles between the joy of this poor old king 
at beholding again his once darling child, and 
the shame at receiving such filial kindness 
from her whom he had cast oif for so small a 
fault in his displeasure ; both these passions 
struggling with the remains of his malady, 
which in his half-crazed brain sometimes made 
him that he scarce remembered where he was, 
or who it was that so kindly kissed him and 
spoke to him : and then he would beg the 
standers-by not to laugh at him, if he were 
mistaken in thinking this lady to be his 
daughter Cordelia ! And then to see him fall 
on his knees to beg pardon of his child ; and 
she, good lady, kneeling all the while to ask a 
blessing of him, and telling him that it did not 
become him to kneel, but it was her duty, for 
she was his child, his true and very child 
Cordelia ! And she kissed him (as she said) 
to kiss away all her sisters' unkindness, and 
said that they might be ashamed of themselves, 
to turn their old kind father with his white 
beard out into the cold air, when her enemy's 
dog, though it had bit her (as she prettily 
expressed it), should have staid by her fire 
such a night as that, and warmed himself. 
And she told her father how she had come 
from France with purpose to bring him assist- 
ance ; and he said, that she must forget and 
forgive, for he was old and foolish, and did not 
know what he did ; but that to be sure she 
had great cause not to love him, but her sisters 
had none. And Cordelia said that she had no 
cause, no more than they had. 

So we will leave this old king in the pro- 
tection of this dutiful and loving child, where, 
by the help of sleep and medicine, she and her 
physicians at length succeeded in winding up 
the untuned and jarring senses which the 
cruelty of his other daughters had so violently 
shaken. Let us return to say a word or two 
about those cruel daughters. 

These monsters of ingratitude, who had been 
so false to their old father, could not be ex- 
pected to prove more faithful to their own 
husbands. They soon grew tired of paying 
even the appearance of duty and affection, and 
in an open way showed they had fixed their 
loves upon another. It happened that the 
object of their guilty loves was the same. It 
was Edmund, a natural son of the late earl of 
Gloucester, who by his treacheries had suc- 
ceeded in disinheriting his brother Edgar the 
lawful heir from his earldom, and by his wicked 
practices was now earl himself : a wicked man, 
and a fit object for the love of such wicked 
creatures as Gonerill and Regan. It falling 



out about this time that the duke of Cornwall, 
Regan's husband, died, Regan immediately 
declared her intention of wedding this earl of 
Gloucester, which rousing the jealousy of her 
sister, to whom as well as to Regan this wicked 
earl had at sundry times professed love, Gonerill 
found means to make away with her sister by 
poison : but being detected in her practices, 
and imprisoned by her husband the duke of 
Albany, for this deed, and for her guilty 
passion for the earl which had come to his ears, 
she in a fit of disappointed love and rage, 
shortly put an end to her own life. Thus the 
justice of Heaven at last overtook these wicked 
daughters. 

While the eyes of all men were upon this 
event, admiring the justice displayed in their 
deserved deaths, the same eyes were suddenly 
taken off from this sight to admire at the mys- 
terious ways of the same power in the melan- 
choly fate of the young and virtuous daughter, 
the lady Cordelia, whose good deeds did seem 
to deserve a more fortunate conclusion : but it 
is an awful truth, that innocence and piety are 
not always successful in this world. The forces 
which Gonerill and Regan had sent out under 
the command of the bad earl of Gloucester 
were victorious, and Cordelia by the practices 
of this wicked earl, who did not like that any 
should stand between him and the throne, 
ended her life in prison. Thus, Heaven took 
this innocent lady to itself in her young years, 
after showing her to the world an illustrious 
example of filial duty. Lear did not long 
survive this kind child. 

Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who 
had still attended his old master's steps from 
the first of his daughters' ill usage to this sad 
period of his decay, tried to make him under- 
stand that it was he who had followed him 
under the name of Caius ; but Lear's care- 
crazed brain at that time could not compre- 
hend how that could be, or how Kent and Caius 
could be the same person : so Kent thought it 
needless to trouble him with explanations at 
such a time ; and Lear soon after expiring, 
this faithful servant to the king, between age 
and grief for his old master's vexations, soon 
followed him to the grave. 

How the judgment of Heaven overtook the 
bad earl of Gloucester, whose treasons were 
discovered, and himself slain in single combat 
with his brother, the lawful earl ; and how 
Gonerill's husband, the duke of Albany, who 
was innocent of the death of Cordelia, and had 
never encouraged his lady in her wicked pro- 
ceedings against her father, ascended the throne 
of Britain after the death of Lear, is needless 
here to narrate ; Lear and his Three Daughters 
being dead, whose adventures alone concern 
our story. 



46 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



MACBETH. 



When Duncan the Meek reigned king of 
Scotland there lived a great thane, or lord, 
called Macbeth. This Macbeth was a near 
kinsman to the king, and in great esteem at 
court for his valour and conduct in the wars ; 
an example of which he had lately given, in 
defeating a rebel army assisted by the troops 
of Norway in terrible numbers. 

The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and 
Banquo, returning victorious from this great 
battle, their way lay over a blasted heath, where 
they were stopped by the strange appearance 
of three figures, like women, except that they 
had beards, and their withered skins and wild 
attire made them look not like any earthly 
creatures. Macbeth first addressed them, when 
they, seemingly offended, laid each one her 
choppy finger upon her skinny lips, in token 
of silence : and the first of them saluted 
Macbeth with the title of thane of Glamis. 
The general was not a little startled to find 
himself known by such creatures, but how 
much more, when the second of them followed 
up that salute by giving him the title of thane 
of Cawdor, to which honour he had no preten- 
sions ; and again the third bid him " All hail ! 
king that shalt be hereafter ! " Such a pro- 
phetic greeting might well amaze him, who 
knew that while the king's sons lived he could 
not hope to succeed to the throne. Then turn- 
ing to Banquo, they pronounced him, in a sort 
of riddling terms, to be lesser than Macbeth and 
greater ; not so happy, but much happier ! and pro- 
phesied that though he should never reign, yet 
his sons after him should be kings in Scotland. 
They then turned into air, and vanished : by 
which the generals knew them to be the weird 
sisters, or witches. 

While they stood pondering on the strange- 
ness of this adventure, there arrived certain 
messengers from the king, who were empow- 
ered by him to confer upon Macbeth the dignity 
of thane of Cawdor. An event so miraculously 
corresponding with the prediction of the witches 
astonished Macbeth, and he stood rapt in amaze- 
ment, unable to make reply to the messengers : 
and in that point of time swelling hopes arose 
in his mind, that the prediction of the third 
witch might in like manner have its accom- 
plishment, and that he should one day reign 
king in Scotland. 

Turning to Banquo, he said, "Do you not 
hope that your children shall be kings, when 
what the witches promised to me has so won- 
derfully come to pass ?" " That hope," answered 



the general, "might enkindle you to aim at 
the throne : but oftentimes these ministers of 
darkness tell us truths in little things, to betray 
us into deeds of greatest consequence." 

But the wicked suggestions of the witches 
had sunk too deep into the mind of Macbeth, 
to allow him to attend to the warnings of the 
good Banquo. From that time he bent all 
his thoughts how to compass the throne of 
Scotland. 

Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communi- 
cated the strange prediction of the weird sisters, 
and its partial accomplishment. She was a 
bad ambitious woman, and so as her husband 
and herself could arrive at greatness, she cared 
not much by what means. She spurred on the 
reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt com- 
punction at the thoughts of blood, and did not 
cease to represent the murder of the king as a 
step absolutely necessary to the fulfilment of 
the flattering prophecy. 

It happened at this time that the king, who 
out of his royal condescension would oftentimes 
visit his principal nobility upon gracious terms, 
came to Macbeth's house, attended by his two 
sons, Malcolm and Donalbain, and a numerous 
train of thanes and attendants, the more to 
honour Macbeth for the triumphal success of 
his wars. 

The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, 
and the air about it was sweet and wholesome, 
which appeared by the nests which the martlet, 
or swallow, had built under all the jutting 
friezes and buttresses of the building, wherever 
it found a place of advantage : for where those 
birds most breed and haunt, the air is observed 
to be delicate. The king entered, well pleased 
with the place, and not less so with the atten- 
tions and respect of his honoured hostess, lady 
Macbeth, who had the art of covering treacherous 
purposes with smiles ; and could look like the 
innocent flower, while she was indeed the ser- 
pent under it. 

The king, being tired with his journey, went 
early to bed, and in his state-room two grooms 
of his chamber (as was the custom) slept beside 
him. He had been unusually pleased with his 
reception, and had made presents, before he 
retired, to his principal officers ; and among 
the rest, had sent a rich diamond to lady 
Macbeth, greeting her by the name of his 
most kind hostess. 

Now was the middle of night, when over 
half the world nature seems dead, and wicked 
dreams abuse men's minds asleep, and none 



di 



MACBETH. 



47 



but the wolf and the murderer is abroad. 
This was the time when lady Macbeth waked 
to plot the murder of the king. She would 
not have undertaken a deed so abhorrent to 
her sex, but that she feared her husband's 
nature, that it was too full of the milk of 
human kindness to do a contrived murder. 
She knew him to be ambitious, but withal to 
be scrupulous, and not yet prepared for that 
height of crime which commonly in the end 
accompanies inordinate ambition. She had 
won him to consent to the murder, but she 
doubted his resolution ; and she feared that 
the natural tenderness of his disposition (more 
humane than her own) would come between, 
and defeat the purpose. 

So with her own hands armed with a dagger 
she approached the king's bed ; having taken 
care to ply the grooms of his chamber so with 
wine, that they slept intoxicated, and careless 
of their charge. There lay Duncan, in a sound 
sleep after the fatigues of his journey, and as 
she viewed him earnestly there was something 
in his face, as he slept, which resembled her own 
father ; and she had not the courage to proceed. 

She returned to confer with her husband. 
His resolution had begun to stagger. He con- 
sidered that there were strong reasons against 
the deed. In the first place, he was not only 
a subject but a near kinsman to the king ; and 
he had been his host and entertainer that day, 
whose duty by the laws of hospitality it was to 
shut the door against his murderers, not bear 
the knife himself. Then he considered how 
just and merciful a king this Duncan had been, 
how clear of offence to his subjects, how loving 
to his nobility, and in particular to him : that 
such kings are the peculiar care of Heaven, 
and their subjects doubly bound to revenge 
their deaths. Besides, by the favours of the 
king, Macbeth stood high in the opinion of all 
sorts of men, and how would those honours be 
stained by the reputation of so foul a murder ! 

In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth 
found her husband inclining to the better part 
and resolving to proceed no further. But she 
being a woman not easily shaken from her 
evil purpose, began to pour in at his ears 
words which infused a portion of her own 
spirit into his mind, assigning reason upon 
reason why he should not shrink from what 
he had undertaken ; how easy the deed was ; 
how soon it would be over ; and how the action 
of one short night would give to all their 
nights and days to come sovereign sway and 
royalty ! Then she threw contempt on his 
change of purpose, and accused him of fickle- 
ness and cowardice ; and declared that she had 
given suck, and knew how tender it was to 
love the babe that milked her, but she would, 
while it was smiling in her face, have plucked 
it from her breast, and dashed its brains out, 
if she had so sworn to do it, as he had sworn 
to perform that murder. Then she added, 



how practicable it was to lay the guilt of the 
deed upon the drunken sleepy grooms. And 
with the valour of her tongue she so chastised 
his sluggish resolutions, that he once more 
summoned up courage to the bloody business. 

So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly 
stole in the dark to the room where Duncan 
lay ; and as he went, he thought he saw another 
dagger in the air, with the handle towards him, 
and on the blade and at the point of it drops of 
blood ; but when he tried to grasp at it, it was 
nothing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding 
from his own hot and oppressed brain and the 
business he had in hand. 

Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king's 
room, whom he despatched with one stroke of 
his dagger. Just as he had done the murder, 
one of the grooms, who slept in the chamber, 
laughed in his sleep, and the other cried, 
" Murder," which woke them both : but they 
said a short prayer ; one of them said, " God 
bless us ! " and the other answered " Amen," 
and addressed themselves to sleep again. 
Macbeth, who stood listening to them, tried 
to say " Amen," when the fellow said " God 
bless us !" but, though he had most need 
of a blessing, the word stuck in his throat, and 
he could not pronounce it. 

Again he thought he heard a voice which 
cried, " Sleep no more : Macbeth doth murder 
sleep, the innocent sleep that nourishes life." 
Still it cried " sleep no more !" to all the house. 
" Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore 
Cawdor shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall 
sleep no more." 

With such horrible imaginations, Macbeth 
returned to his listening wife, who began to 
think he had failed of his purpose, and that 
the deed was somehow frustrated. He came 
in so distracted a state, that she reproached 
him with his want of firmness, and sent him to 
wash his hands of the blood which stained 
them, while she took his dagger, with purpose 
to stain the cheeks of the grooms with blood, 
to make it seem their guilt. 

Morning came, and with it the discovery of 
the murder, which could not be concealed ; 
and though Macbeth and his lady made great 
show of grief, and the proofs against the 
grooms (the dagger being produced against 
them and their faces smeared with blood) 
Avere sufficiently strong, yet the entire sus- 
picion fell upon Macbeth, whose inducements 
to such a deed were so much more forcible 
than such poor silly grooms could be supposed 
to have ; and Duncan's two sons fled. Mal- 
colm, the eldest, sought for refuge in the 
English court : and the youngest, Donalbain, 
made his escape to Ireland. 

The king's sons, who should have succeeded 
him, having thus vacated the throne, Macbeth 
as next heir was crowned king, and thus the 
prediction of the weird sisters was literally 
accomplished. 



48 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



Though placed so high, Macbeth and his 
queen could not forget the prophecy of the 
weird sisters, that though Macbeth should be 
king, yet not his children, but the children of 
Banquo, should be kings after him. The 
thought of this, and that they had defiled their 
hands with blood, and done so great crimes, 
only to place the posterity of Banquo upon 
the throne, so rankled within them, that they 
determined to put to death both Banquo and 
his son, to make void the predictions of the 
weird sisters, which in their own case had been 
so remarkably brought to pass. 

For this purpose they made a great supper, 
to which they invited all the chief thanes ; 
and, among the rest, with marks of particular 
respect, Banquo and his son Fleance were in- 
vited. The way by which Banquo was to pass 
to the palace at night, was beset by murderers 
appointed by Macbeth, who stabbed Banquo ; 
but in the scuffle Fleance escaped. From that 
Fleance descended a race of monarchs who 
afterwards filled the Scottish throne, ending 
with James the sixth of Scotland and the first 
of England, under whom the two crowns of 
England and Scotland were united. 

At supper the queen, whose manners were 
in the highest degree affable and royal, played 
the hostess with a gracefulness and attention 
which conciliated every one present, and Mac- 
beth discoursed freely with his thanes and 
nobles, saying, that all that was honourable in 
the country was under his roof, if he had but his 
good friend Banquo present, whom yet he hoped 
he should rather have to chide for neglect, 
than to lament for any mischance. Just at 
these words the ghost of Banquo, whom he had 
caused to be murdered, entered the room, and 
placed himself on the chair which Macbeth 
was about to occupy. Though Macbeth was a 
bold man, and one that could have faced the 
devil without trembling, at this horrible sight 
his cheeks turned white with fear, and he 
stood quite unmanned with his eyes fixed upon 
the ghost. His queen and all the nobles, who 
saw nothing, but perceived him gazing (as they 
thought) upon an empty chair, took it for a fit 
of distraction ; and she reproached him, whis- 
pering that it was but the same fancy which 
had made him see the dagger in the air, 
when he was about to kill Duncan. But 
Macbeth continued to see the ghost, and gave 
no heed to all they could say, while he ad- 
dressed it with distracted words, yet so sig- 
nificant, that his queen, fearing the dreadful 
secret would be disclosed, in great haste dis- 
missed the guests, excusing the infirmity of 
Macbeth as a disorder he was often troubled 
with. 

To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was sub- 
ject. His queen and he had their sleeps 
afflicted with terrible dreams, and the blood of 
Banquo troubled them not more than the 
escape of Fleance, whom now they looked 



upon as a father to a line of kings, who should 
keep their posterity out of the throne. "With 
these miserable thoughts they found no peace, 
and Macbeth determined once more to seek 
out the weird sisters, and know from them 
the worst. 

He sought them in a cave upon the heath, 
where they, who knew by foresight of his 
coming, were engaged in preparing their 
dreadful charms, by which they conjured up 
infernal spirits to reveal to them futurity. 
Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and 
serpents, the eye of a newt, and the tongue of 
a dog, the leg of a lizard, and the wing of the 
night- owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth of a 
wolf, the maw of the ravenous salt-sea shark, 
the mummy of a witch, the root of the poisonous 
hemlock (this to have effect must be digged in 
the dark), the gall of a goat, and the liver of a 
Jew, with slips of the yew-tree that roots itself 
in graves, and the finger of a dead child : all 
these were set on to boil in a great kettle, or 
cauldron, which, as fast as it grew too hot, was 
cooled with a baboon's blood : to these they 
poured in the blood of a sow that had eaten 
her young, and they threw into the flame the 
grease that had sweaten from a murderer's 
gibbet. By these charms they bound the in- 
fernal spirits to answer their questions. 

It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he 
would have his doubts resolved by them, or by 
their masters, the spirits. He, nothing daunted 
by the dreadful ceremonies which he saw, 
boldly answered, ili Where are they ? let me 
see them." And they' called the spirits, which 
were three. And the first arose in the likeness 
of an armed head, and he called Macbeth by 
name, and bid him beware of the thane of 
Fife ; for which caution Macbeth thanked him : 
for Macbeth had entertained a jealousy of 
Macduff, the thane of Fife. 

And the second spirit arose in the likeness 
of a bloody child, and he called Macbeth by 
name, and bid him have no fear but laugh to 
scorn the power of man, for none of woman 
born should have power to hurt him : and he 
advised him to be bloody, bold, and resolute. 
" Then live, Macduff ! " cried the king ; " what 
need I fear of thee ? but yet I will make assur- 
ance doubly sure. Thou shalt not live ; that 
I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, and sleep in 
spite of thunder." 

That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in 
the form of a child crowned, with a tree in his 
hand. He called Macbeth by name, and com- 
forted him against conspiracies, saying, that he 
should never be vanquished, until the wood of 
Birnam to Dunsinane-Hill should come against 
him. " Sweet bodements ! good!" cried Mac- 
beth ; u who can unfix the forest, and move it 
from its earth-bound roots ? I see I shall live 
the usual period of man's life, and not be 
cut off by a violent death. But my heart 
throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if your 



MACBETH. 



49 



art can tell so much, if Banquo's issue shall 
ever reign in this kingdom ? " Here the 
cauldron sunk into the ground, and a noise of 
music was heard, and eight shadows, like kings, 
passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last, who bore 
a glass which showed the figures of many more, 
and Banquo all bloody smiled upon Macbeth, 
and pointed to them ; by which Macbeth 
knew, that these were the posterity of Banquo, 
who should reign after him in Scotland ; and 
the witches, with a sound of soft music, and 
with dancing, making a show of duty and 
welcome to Macbeth, vanished. And from 
this time the thoughts of Macbeth were all 
bloody and dreadful. 

The first thing he heard when he got out of 
the witches' cave, was, that Macduff, thane of 
Fife, had fled to England, to join the army 
which was forming against him under Malcolm, 
the eldest son of the late king, with intent to 
displace Macbeth, and set Malcolm, the right 
heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, stung with 
rage, set upon the castle of Macduff, and put 
his wife and children, whom the thane had left 
behind, to the sword, and extended the slaugh- 
ter to all who claimed the least relationship to 
Macduff. 

These and such-like deeds alienated the 
minds of all his chief nobility from him. Such 
as could, fled to join with Malcolm and Mac- 
duff, who were now approaching with a power- 
ful army which they had raised in England ; 
and the rest secretly wished success to their 
arms, though for fear of Macbeth they could 
take no active part. His recruits went on 
slowly. Everybody hated the tyrant, nobody 
loved or honoured him, but all suspected him ; 
and he began to envy the condition of Duncan, 
whom he had murdered, who slept soundly in 
his grave, against whom treason had done its 
worst : steel nor poison, domestic malice nor 
foreign levies, could hurt him any longer. 

While these things were acting, the queen, 
who had been the sole partner in his wicked- 
ness, in whose bosom he could sometimes seek 
a momentary repose from those terrible dreams 
which afflicted them both nightly, died, it is 
supposed by her own hands, unable to bear the 
remorse of guilt, and public hate ; by which 
event he was left alone, without a soul to love 
or care for him, or a friend to whom he could 
confide his wicked purposes. 

He grew careless of life, and wished for 
death ; but the near approach of Malcolm's 
army roused in him what remained of his an- 
cient courage, and he determined to die (as he 
expressed it) "with armour on his back." 
Besides this, the hollow promises of the 
witches had filled him with false confidence, 
and he remembered the sayings of the spirits, 
that none of woman born was to hurt him, and 
that he was never to be vanquished till Birnam 
wood should come to Dunsinane, which he 
thought could never be. So he shut himself 



up in his castle, whose impregnable strength 
was such as defied a siege : here he sullenly 
waited the approach of Malcolm. When, upon 
a day, there came a messenger to him, pale 
and snaking with fear, almost unable to report 
that which he had seen : for he averred, that 
as he stood upon his watch on the hill, he 
looked towards Birnam, and to his thinking 
the wood began to move ! " Liar and slave," 
cried Macbeth ; " if thou speakest false, thou 
shalt hang alive upon the next tree, till famine 
end thee. If thy tale be true, I care not if 
thou dost as much by me ; " for Macbeth now 
began to faint in resolution, and to doubt the 
equivocal speeches of the spirits. He was not 
to fear till Birnam wood should come to Dun- 
sinane : and now a wood did move ! "However," 
said he, " if this which he avouches be true, 
let us arm and out. There is no flying hence, 
nor staying here. I begin to be weary of the 
sun, and wish my life at an end." With these 
desperate speeches he sallied forth upon the 
besiegers, who had now come up to the 
castle. 

The strange appearance, which had given 
the messenger an idea of a wood moving, is 
easily solved. When the besieging^ army 
marched through the wood of Birnam, Mal- 
colm, like a skilful general, instructed his 
soldiers to hew down every one a bough, and 
bear it before him, by way of concealing the 
true numbers of his host. This marching of 
the soldiers with boughs had at a distance the 
appearance which had frightened the messenger. 
Thus were the words of the spirit brought to 
pass, in a sense different from that in which 
Macbeth had understood them, and one great 
hold of his confidence was gone. 

And now a severe skirmishing took place, in 
which Macbeth, though feebly supported by 
those who called themselves his friends, but 
in reality hated the tyrant and inclined to the 
party of Malcolm and Macduff, yet fought 
with the extreme of rage and valour, cutting to 
pieces all who were opposed to him, till he 
came to where Macduff was fighting. Seeing 
Macduff, and remembering the caution of the 
spirit who had counselled him to avoid Mac- 
duff above all men, he would have turned, but 
Macduff, who had been seeking him through 
the whole fight, opposed his turning, and a 
fierce contest ensued ; Macduff giving him 
many foul reproaches for the murder of his 
wife and children. Macbeth, whose soul was 
charged enough with blood of that family 
already, would still have declined the combat ; 
but Macduff still urged him to it, calling him 
tyrant, murderer, hell-hound, and villain. 

Then Macbeth remembered the words of the 
spirit, how none of woman born should hurt 
him ; and smiling confidently, he said to Mac- 
duff : " Thou losest thy labour, Macduff. As 
easily thou mayest impress the air with thy 
sword as make me vulnerable. I bear a 



50 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



charmed life, which must not yield to one of 
woman born." 

" Despair thy charm," said Macduff, " and 
let that lying spirit, whom thou hast served, 
tell thee, that Macduff was never born of 
woman, never as the ordinary manner of men 
is to be born, but was untimely taken from his 
mother." 

" Accursed be the tongue which tells me so," 
said the trembling Macbeth, who felt his last 
hold of confidence give way ; " and let never 
man in future believe the lying equivocations 
of witches and juggling spirits, who deceive us 
in words which have double senses, and while 
they keep their promise literally, disappoint 
our hopes with a different meaning. I will not 
fight with thee." 

" Then, live ! " said the scornful Macduff ; 
" we will have a show of thee, as men show 



monsters, and a painted board, on which shall 
be written, ' Here men may see the tyrant ! ' " 
"Never," said Macbeth, whose courage re- 
turned with despair ; " I will not live to kiss 
the ground before young Malcolm's feet, and 
to be baited with the curses of the rabble. 
Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, 
and thou opposed to me who wast never born 
of woman, yet will I try the last." With these 
frantic words he threw himself upon Macduff, 
who after a severe struggle in the end over- 
came him, and cutting off his head, made a 
present of it to the young and lawful king, 
Malcolm ; who took upon him the government 
which by the machinations of the usurper he 
had so long been deprived of, and ascended the 
throne of Duncan the Meek, amid the accla- 
mations of the nobles and the people. 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 



Bertram, Count of Rossilion, had newly 
come to his title and estate, by the death of 
his father. The king of France loved the 
father of Bertram, and when he heard of his 
death, he sent for his son to come immediately 
to his royal court in Paris ; intending, for the 
friendship he bore the late count, to grace 
young Bertram with his especial favour and 
protection. 

Bertram was living with his mother, the 
widowed countess, when Lafeu, an old lord of 
the French court, came to conduct him to the 
king. The King "of France was an absolute 
monarch, and the invitation to court was in the 
form of a royal mandate, or positive command, 
which no subject, of what high dignity soever, 
might disobey ; therefore, though the countess, 
in parting with this dear son, seemed a second 
time to bury her husband, whose loss she had 
so lately mourned, yet she dared not to keep 
him a single day, but gave instant orders for 
his departure. Lafeu, who came to fetch him, 
tried to comfort the countess for the loss of 
her late lord, and her son's sudden absence ; 
and he said, in a courtier's flattering manner, 
that the king was so kind a prince, she would 
find in his majesty a husband, and that he 
would be a father to her son : meaning only 
that the good king would befriend the fortunes 
of Bertram. Lafeu told the countess that the 
king had fallen into a sad malady, which was 
pronounced by his physicians to be incurable. 
The lady expressed great sorrow on hearing 
this account of the king's ill-health, and said, 
she wished the father of Helena (a young 
gentlewoman who was present in attendance 
upon her) were living, for that she doubted not 



he could have cured his majesty of his disease. 
And she told Lafeu something of the history 
of Helena, saying she was the only daughter 
of the famous physician Gerard de Narbon, and 
that he had recommended his daughter to her 
care when he was dying, so that since his 
death she had taken Helena under her protec- 
tion ; then the countess praised the virtuous 
disposition and excellent qualities of Helena, 
saying she inherited these virtues from her 
worthy father. While she was speaking, 
Helena wept in sad and mournful silence, 
which made the countess gently reprove her 
for too much grieving for her father's death. 

Bertram now bade his mother farewell. 
The countess parted with this dear son with 
tears and many blessings, and commended him 
to the care of Lafeu, saying, " Good my lord, 
advise him, for he is an unseasoned courtier." 

Bertram's last words were spoken to Helena, 
but they were words of mere civility, wishing 
her happiness ; and he concluded his short 
farewell to her with saying, " Be comfortable 
to my mother, your mistress, and make much 
of her." 

Helena had long loved Bertram, and when 
she wept in sad and mournful silence, the tears 
she shed were not for Gerard de Narbon. 
Helena loved her father ; but in the present 
feeling of a deeper love, the object of which 
she was about to lose, she had forgotten the 
very form and features of her dead father, her 
imagination presenting no image to her mind 
but Bertram's. 

Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she 
always remembered that he was the Count of 
Rossilion, descended from the most ancient 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 



51 



family in France. She of humble birth. Her 
parents of no note at all. His ancestors all 
noble. And therefore she looked up to the 
high-born Bertram, as to her master and to her 
dear lord, and dared not form any wish but to 
live his servant, and so living to die his vassal. 
So great the distance seemed to her between 
his height of dignity and her lowly fortunes, 
that she would say, " It were all one that I 
should love a bright peculiar star and think to 
wed it, Bertram is so far above me." 

Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears, 
and her heart with sorrow ; for though she 
loved without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort 
to her to see him every hour, and Helena would 
sit and look upon his dark eye, his arched 
brow, and the curls of his fine hair, till she 
seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of 
her heart, that heart too capable of retaining 
the memory of every line in the features of 
that loved face. 

Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no 
other portion than some prescriptions of rare 
and well-proved virtue, which by deep study 
and long experience in medicine, he had col- 
lected as sovereign and almost infallible reme- 
dies. Among the rest there was one set down 
as an approved medicine for the disease under 
which Lafeu said the king at that time lan- 
guished ; and when Helena heard of the king's 
complaint, she, who till now had been so hum- 
ble and so hopeless, formed an ambitious pro- 
ject in her mind to go herself to Paris, and 
undertake the cure of the king. But though 
Helena was the possessor of this choice pre- 
scription, it was unlikely, as the king as well 
as his physicians was of opinion that his 
disease was incurable, that they would give 
credit to a poor unlearned virgin, if she should 
offer to perform a cure. The firm hopes that 
Helena had of succeeding, if she might be per- 
mitted to make the trial, seemed more than 
even her father's skill warranted, though he 
was the most famous physician of his time : 
for she felt a strong faith that this good medi- 
cine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars in 
heaven, to be the legacy that should advance 
her fortune, even to the high dignity of being 
Count Rossilion's wife. 

Bertram had not been long gone, when the 
countess was informed by her steward, that he 
had overheard Helena talking to herself, and 
that he understood from some words she uttered, 
she was in love with Bertram, and had thought 
of following him to Paris. The countess dis- 
missed the steward with thanks, and desired 
him to tell Helena she wished to speak with 
her. What she had just heard of Helena 
brought the remembrance of days long past 
into the mind of the countess, those days pro- 
bably when her love for Bertram's father first 
began ; and she said to herself, " Even so it was 
with me when I was young. Love is a thorn that 
belongs to the rose of youth ; for in the season 



of youth, if ever we are nature's children, these 
faults are ours, though then we think not they 
are faults." While the countess was thus medi- 
tating on the loving errors of her own youth, 
Helena entered, and she said to her, " Helena, 
you know I am a mother to you." Helena re- 
plied, "You are my honourable mistress." "You 
are my daughter," said the countess again : 
" I say I am your mother. Why do you start 
and look pale at my words ?" With looks of 
alarm and confused thoughts, fearing the coun- 
tess suspected her love, Helena still replied, 
" Pardon me, madam, you are not my mother : 
the Count Rossilion cannot be my brother, nor 
I your daughter." "Yet Helena," said the 
countess, " you might be my daughter-in-law ; 
and I am afraid that is what you mean to be, 
the words mother and daughter so disturb you. 
Helena, do you love my son V "Good madam, 
pardon me," said the affrighted Helena. Again 
the countess repeated her question, " Do you 
love my son ? " " Do not you love him, madam ? " 
said Helena. The countess replied, " Give me 
not this evasive answer, Helena. Come, come, 
disclose the state of your affections, for your 
love has to the full appeared." Helena on her 
knees now owned her love, and with shame 
and terror implored the pardon of her noble 
mistress ; and with words expressive of the 
sense she had of the inequality between their 
fortunes, she protested Bertram did not know 
she loved him, comparing her humble unas- 
piring love to a poor Indian, who adores the 
sun that looks upon his worshipper, but knows of 
him no more. The countess asked Helena if she 
had not lately an intent to go to Paris ? Helena 
owned the design she had formed in her mind, 
when she heard Lafeu speak of the king's ill- 
ness. " This was your motive for wishing to 
go to Paris," said the countess, " was it ? Speak 
truly." Helena honestly answered, " My lord 
your son made me to think of this ; else Paris, 
and the medicine, and the king, had from the 
conversation of my thoughts been absent then." 
The countess heard the whole of this confes- 
sion without saying a word either of approval 
or of blame, but she strictly questioned Helena 
as to the probability of the medicine being 
useful to the king. She found that it was 
the most prized by Gerard de Narbon of all 
he possessed, and that he had given it to his 
daughter on his death-bed ; and remembering 
the solemn promise she had made at that awful 
hour in regard to this young maid, whose des- 
tiny, and the life of the king himself, seemed 
to depend on the execution of a project (which 
though conceived by the fond suggestions of a 
loving maiden's thoughts, the countess knew 
not but it might be the unseen workings of 
Providence to bring to pass the recovery of the 
king, and to lay the foundation of the future 
fortunes of Gerard de Narbon's daughter), free 
leave she gave to Helena to pursue her own 
way, and generously furnished her with ample 

E 2 



52 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



means and suitable attendants, and Helena set 
out for Paris, with the blessings of the countess, 
and her kindest wishes for her success. 

Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assist- 
ance of her friend the old Lord Lafeu she 
obtained an audience of the king. She had 
still many difficulties to encounter, for the 
king was not easily prevailed on to try the 
medicine offered him by this fair young doctor. 
But she told him she was Gerard de Narbon's 
daughter (with whose fame the king was well 
acquainted), and she offered the precious 
medicine as the darling treasure which con- 
tained the essence of all her father's long ex- 
perience and skill, and she boldly engaged to 
forfeit her life, if it failed to restore his majesty 
to perfect health in the space of two days. 
The king at length consented to try it, and in 
two days' time Helena was to lose her life if 
the king did not recover ; but if she succeeded 
he promised to give her the choice of any man 
throughout all France (the princes only ex- 
cepted) whom she could like for a husband ; 
the choice of a husband being the fee Helena 
demanded, if she cured the king of his dis- 
ease. 

Helena did not deceive herself in the hope 
she conceived of the efficacy of her father's 
medicine. Before two days were at an end, 
the king was restored to perfect health, and he 
assembled all the young noblemen of his court 
together, in order to confer the promised reward 
of a husband upon his fair physician ; and he 
desired Helena to look round on this youthful 
parcel of noble bachelors, and choose her 
husband. Helena was not slow to make her 
choice, for among these young lords she saw 
the count Rossilion, and turning to Bertram, 
she said, " This is the man. I dare not say, 
my lord, I take you, but I give me and my 
service ever whilst I live into your guiding 
power." " Why then," said the king, " young 
Bertram, take her ; she is your wife." Bertram 
did not hesitate to declare his dislike to this 
present of the king's of the self-offered Helena, 
who, he said, was a poor physician's daughter, 
bred at his father's charge, and now living 
dependent on his mother's bounty. Helena 
heard him speak these words of rejection and 
of scorn, and she said to the king, " That you 
are well, my lord, I am glad. Let the rest go." 
But the king would not suffer his royal com- 
mand to be so slighted; for the power of 
bestowing their nobles in marriage was one of 
the many privileges of the kings of France ; 
and that same day Bertram was married to 
Helena, a forced and uneasy marriage to Ber- 
tram, and of no promising hope to the poor 
lady, who, though she gained the noble husband 
she had hazarded her life to obtain, seemed to 
have won but a splendid blank, her husband's 
love not being a gift in the power of the king 
of France to bestow. 

Helena was no sooner married, than she was 



desired by Bertram to apply to the king for 
him for leave of absence from court ; and when 
she brought him the king's permission for his 
departure, Bertram told her that as he was not 
prepared for this sudden marriage, it had much 
unsettled him, and therefore she must not won- 
der at the course he should pursue. If Helena 
wondered not, she grieved when she found it 
was his intention to leave her. He ordered 
her to go home to his mother. "When Helena 
heard this unkind command, she replied, " Sir, 
I can nothing say to this, but that I am your 
most obedient servant, and shall ever with 
true observance seek to eke out that desert, 
wherein my homely stars have failed to equal 
my great fortunes." But this humble speech 
of Helena's did not at all move the haughty 
Bertram to pity his gentle wife, and he parted 
from her without even the common civility of 
a kind farewell. 

Back to the countess then Helena returned. 
She had accomplished the purport of her 
journey, she had preserved the life of the king, 
and she had wedded her heart's dear lord, the 
Count Rossilion ; but she returned back a 
dejected lady to her noble mother-in-law, and 
as soon as she entered the house, she received 
a letter from Bertram which almost broke her 
heart. 

The good countess received her with a cor- 
dial welcome, as if she had been her son's own 
choice, and a lady of a high degree, and she 
spoke kind words, to comfort her for the unkind 
neglect of Bertram in sending his wife home 
on her bridal day alone. But this gracious 
reception failed to cheer the sad mind of 
Helena, and she said, " Madam, my lord is 
gone, for ever gone." She then read these 
words out of Bertram's letter : " When you 
can get the ring from my finger which never 
shall come off, then call me husband ; but in 



such a then I write a 



This is a dread- 



ful sentence!" said Helena. The countess 
begged her to have patience, and said, now 
Bertram was gone, she should be her child, and 
that she deserved a lord, that twenty such rude 
boys as Bertram might tend upon, and hourly 
call her mistress. But in vain by respectful 
condescension and kind flattery this matchless 
mother tried to soothe the sorrows of her 
daughter-in-law. Helena still kept her eyes 
fixed upon the letter, and cried out in an agony 
of grief, " Till I have no wife, I have nothing 
in France." — The countess asked her if she 
found those words in the letter ? " Yes, 
madam," was all poor Helena could answer. 

The next morning Helena was missing. She 
left a letter to be delivered to the countess 
after she was gone, to acquaint her with the 
reason of her sudden absence ; in this letter 
she informed her, that she was so much grieved 
at having driven Bertram from his native 
country and his home, that to atone for her 
offence she had undertaken a pilgrimage to the 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 



53 



shrine of St. Jaques le Grand, and concluded 
with requesting the countess to inform her son 
that the wife he so hated had left his house 
for ever. 

Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Flo- 
rence, and there became an officer in the Duke 
of Florence's army, and after a successful war, 
in which he distinguished himself by many 
brave actions, Bertram received letters from 
his mother, containing the acceptable tidings 
that Helena would no more disturb him ; and 
he was preparing to return home, when Helena 
herself, clad in her pilgrim's weeds, arrived at 
the city of Florence. 

Florence was a city through which the pil- 
grims used to pass on their way to St. Jaques 
le Grand; and when Helena arrived at this 
city, she heard that a hospitable widow dwelt 
there, who used to receive into her house the 
female pilgrims that were going to visit the 
shrine of that saint, giving them lodging and 
kind entertainment. To this good lady there- 
fore Helena went, and the widow gave her a 
courteous welcome, and invited her to see 
whatever was curious in that famous city, and 
told her that if she would like to see the duke's 
army, she would take her where she might 
have a full view of it. " And you will see a 
countryman of yours," said the widow ; " his 
name is Count Rossilion, who has done worthy 
service in the duke's wars." Helena wanted 
no second invitation, when she found Bertram 
was to make a part of the show. She accom- 
panied her hostess ; and a sad and mournful 
pleasure it was to her to look once more upon 
her dear husband's face. " Is he not a hand- 
some man?" said the widow. "I like him 
well," replied Helena, with great truth. All 
the way they walked, the talkative widow's 
discourse was all of Bertram ; she told Helena 
the story of Bertram's marriage, and how he 
hai deserted the poor lady his wife and entered 
into the duke's army to avoid living with her. 
To this account of her own misfortunes Helena 
patiently listened, and when it was ended the 
history of Bertram was not yet done, for then 
the widow began another tale, every word of 
which sunk deep into the mind of Helena ; for 
the story she now told was of Bertram's love 
for her daughter. 

Though Bertram did not like the marriage 
forced on him by the king, it seems he was 
not insensible to love, for since he had been 
stationed with the army at Florence, he had 
fallen in love with Diana, a fair young gentle- 
woman, the daughter of this widow who was 
Helena's hostess : and every night, with music 
of all sorts, and songs composed in praise of 
Diana's beauty, he would come under her 
window, and solicit her love : and all his suit 
to her was that she would permit him to visit 
her by stealth after the family were retired to 
rest ; but Diana would by no means be per- 
suaded to grant this improper request, nor give 



any encouragement to his suit, knowing him 
to be a married man : for Diana had been 
brought up under the counsels of a prudent 
mother, who, though she was now in reduced 
circumstances, was well-born, and descended 
from the noble family of the Capulets. 

All this the good lady related to Helena, 
highly praising the virtuous principles of her 
discreet daughter, which she said were entirely 
owing to the excellent education and good 
advice she had given her ; and she farther 
said, that Bertram had been particularly im- 
portunate with Diana to admit him to the visit 
he so much desired that night, because he was 
going to leave Florence early the next morning. 

Though it grieved Helena to hear of Ber- 
tram's love for the widow's daughter, yet from 
this story the ardent mind of Helena conceived 
a project (nothing discouraged at the ill success 
of her former one) to recover her truant lord. 
She disclosed to the widow that she was 
Helena, the deserted wife of Bertram, and 
requested that her kind hostess and her 
daughter would suffer this visit from Bertram 
to take place, and allow her to pass herself 
upon Bertram for Diana ; telling them, her 
chief motive for desiring to have this secret 
meeting with her husband was to get a ring 
from him, which he had said if ever she was in 
possession of, he would acknowledge her as 
his wife. 

The widow and her daughter promised to 
assist her in this affair, partly moved by pity 
for this unhappy forsaken wife, and partly won 
over to her interest by the promises of reward 
which Helena made them, giving them a purse 
of money in earnest of her future favour. In 
the course of that day Helena caused informa- 
tion to be sent to Bertram, that she was dead, 
hoping that when he thought himself free to 
make a second choice by the news of her death, 
he would offer marriage to her in her feigned 
character of Diana. And if she could obtain 
the ring and this promise too, she doubted not 
she should make some future good come of it. 

In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram 
was admitted into Diana's chamber, and Helena 
was there ready to receive him. The flattering 
compliments and love-discourse he addressed 
to Helena were precious sounds to her, though 
she knew they were meant for Diana ; and 
Bertram was so well pleased with her, that he 
made her a solemn promise to be her husband, 
and to love her for ever ; which she hoped 
would be prophetic of a real affection, when he 
should know it was his own wife, the despised 
Helena, whose conversation had so delighted 
him. 

Bertram never knew how sensible a lady 
Helena was, else perhaps he would not have 
been so regardless of her; and seeing her 
every day, he had entirely overlooked her 
beauty, a face we are accustomed to see con- 
stantly losing the effect which is caused by the 



54 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



first sight either of beauty or of plainness ; 
and of her understanding it was impossible he 
should judge, because she felt such reverence, 
mixed with her love for him, that she was 
always silent in his presence ; but now that 
her future fate, and the happy ending of all 
her love-projects, seemed to depend on her 
leaving a favourable impression on the mind 
of Bertram from this night's interview, she 
exerted all her wit to please him ; and the 
simple graces of her lively conversation and 
the endearing sweetness of her manners so 
charmed Bertram, that he vowed she should 
be his wife. Helena begged the ring from off 
his finger as a token of his regard, and he gave 
it to her ; and in return for this ring, which it 
was of such importance to her to possess, she 
gave him another ring, which was one the king 
had made her a present of. Before it was 
light in the morning, she sent Bertram away ; 
and he immediately set out on his journey 
towards his mother's house. 

Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana 
to accompany her to Paris, their further as- 
sistance being necessary to the full accomplish- 
ment of the plan she had formed. When 
they arrived there, they found the king was 
gone upon a visit to the countess of Ptossilion, 
and Helena followed the king with all the 
speed she could make. 

The king was still in perfect health, and his 
gratitude to her who had been the means of 
his recovery was so lively in his mind, that 
the moment he saw the countess of Rossilion, 
he began to talk of Helena, calling her a 
precious jewel that was lost by the folly of her 
son ; but seeing the subject distressed the 
countess, who sincerely lamented the death of 
Helena, he said, " My good lady, I have for- 
given and forgotten all." But the good-natured 
old Lafeu, who was present, and could not 
bear that the memory of his favourite Helena 
should be so lightly passed over, said, " This I 
must say, the young lord did great offence to 
his majesty, his mother, and his lady ; but to 
himself he did the greatest wrong of all, for he 
has lost a wife whose beauty astonished all 
eyes, whose words took all ears captive, whose 
deep perfection made all hearts wish to serve 
her." The king said, " Praising what is lost 
makes the remembrance dear. "Well — call 
him hither ;" meaning Bertram, who now pre- 
sented himself before the king: and, on his 
expressing deep sorrow for the injuries he had 
done to Helena, the king, for his dead father's 
and his admirable mother's sake, pardoned 
him, and restored him once more to his favour. 
But the gracious countenance of the king was 
soon changed towards him, for he perceived 
that Bertram wore the very ring upon his 
finger which he had given to Helena ; and he 
well remembered that Helena had called all 
the saints in heaven to witness that she would 
never part with that ring, unless she sent it to 



the king himself upon some great disaster 
befalling her; and Bertram, on the king's 
questioning him how he came by the ring, told 
an improbable story of a lady throwing it to 
him out of a window, and denied ever having 
seen Helena since the day of their marriage. 
The king, knowing Bertram's dislike to his 
wife, feared he had destroyed her ; and he 
ordered his guards to seize Bertram, saying, 
" I am wrapt in dismal thinking, for I fear the 
life of Helena was foully snatched." At this 
moment Diana and her mother entered, and 
presented a petition to the king, wherein they 
begged his majesty to exert his royal power to 
compel Bertram to marry Diana, he having 
made her a solemn promise of marriage. 
Bertram fearing the king's anger, denied he 
had made any such promise, and then Diana 
produced the ring (which Helena had put into 
her hands) to confirm the truth of her words; 
and she said that she had given Bertram the 
ring he then wore, in exchange for that, at the 
time he vowed to marry her. On hearing 
this, the king ordered the guards to seize her 
also; and her account of the ring differing 
from Bertram's, the king's suspicions were 
confirmed; and he said, if they did not con- 
fess how they came by this ring of Helena's, 
they should be both put to death. Diana re- 
quested her mother might be permitted to 
fetch the jeweller of whom she bought the 
ring, which being granted, the widow went 
out, and presently returned leading in Helena 
herself. 

The good countess, who in silent grief had 
beheld her son's danger, and had even dreaded 
that the suspicion of his having destroyed his wife 
might possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, 
whom she loved with even a maternal affection, 
was still living, felt a delight she was hardly 
able to support ; and the king, scarce believing 
for joy that it was Helena, said, "Is this indeed 
the wife of Bertram that I see ? " Helena, feel- 
ing herself yet an unacknowledged wife, replied, 
" No, my good lord, it is but the shadow of a 
wife you see, the name and not the thing." 
Bertram cried out, " Both, both ! O pardon ! " 
" O my lord," said Helena, " when I personated 
this fair maid, I found you wondrous kind ; and 
look, here is your letter ! " reading to him in a 
joyful tone those words, which she had once 
repeated so sorrowfully, When from my finger 
you can get this ring — " This is done, it was to 
me you gave the ring. Will you be mine, now 
you are doubly won ? " Bertram replied, " If 
you can make it plain that you were the lady 
I'talked with that night, I will love you dearly, 
ever, ever dearly." This was no difficult task, 
for the widow and Diana came with Helena 
purposely to prove this fact ; and the king was 
so well pleased with Diana, for the friendly 
assistance she had rendered the dear lady he 
so truly valued for the service she had done 
him, that he promised her also a noble hus- 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 



55 



band : Helena's history giving him a hint that 
it was a suitable reward for kings to bestow 
upon fair ladies when they perform notable 
services. 
Thus Helena at last found that her father's 



legacy was indeed sanctified by the luckiest 
stars in heaven ; for she was now the beloved 
wife of her dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law 
of her noble mistress, and herself the countess 
of Rossilion. 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 



Katherine, the Shrew, was the eldest 
daughter of Baptista, a rich gentleman of 
Padua. She was a lady of such an ungovern- 
able spirit and fiery temper, such a loud-tongued 
scold, that she was known in Padua by no other 
name than Katherine the Shrew. It seemed 
very unlikely, indeed impossible, that any gen- 
tleman would ever be found who would venture 
to marry this lady, and therefore Baptista was 
much blamed for deferring his consent to many 
excellent offers that were made to her gentle 
sister Bianca, putting off all Bianca' s suitors 
with this excuse, that when the eldest sister 
was fairly off his hands, they should have free 
leave to address young Bianca. 

It happened however that a gentleman, 
named Petruchio, came to Padua, purposely to 
look out for a wife, who, nothing discouraged 
by these reports of Katherine's temper, and 
hearing she was rich and handsome, resolved 
upon marrying this famous termagant, and 
taming her into a meek and manageable wife. 
And truly none was so fit to set about this 
herculean labour as Petruchio, whose spirit 
was as high as Katherine's, and he was a witty 
and most happy-tempered humourist, and 
withal so wise, and of such a true judgment, 
that he well knew how to feign a passionate 
and furious deportment, when his spirits were 
so calm that himself could have laughed merrily 
at his own angry feigning, for his natural temper 
was careless and easy ; the boisterous airs he 
assumed when he became the husband of 
Katherine being but in sport, or, more properly 
speaking, affected by his excellent discern- 
ment, as the only means to overcome in her 
own way the passionate ways of the furious 
Katherine. 

A courting then Petruchio went to Katherine 
the Shrew, and first of all he applied to Baptista, 
her father, for leave to woo his gentle daughter 
Katherine, as Petruchio called her ; saying 
archly, that having heard of her bashful 
modesty and mild behaviour, he had come from 
Verona to solicit her love. Her father, though 
he wished her married, was forced to confess 
Katherine would ill answer this character, it 
being soon apparent of what manner of gentle- 
ness she was composed, for her music-master 
rushed into the room to complain that the gen- 
tle Katherine, his pupil, had broken his head 



with her lute, for presuming to find fault with 
her performance ; which, when Petruchio heard, 
he said, " It is a brave wench ; I love her more 
than ever, and long to have some chat with 
her ;" and hurrying the old gentleman for a 
positive answer, he said, " My business is in 
haste, signior Baptista, I cannot come every 
day to woo. You knew my father. Pie is 
dead, and has left me heir to all his lands and 
goods. Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love, 
what dowry you will give with her?" Baptista 
thought his manner was somewhat blunt for a 
lover ; but being glad to get Katherine married, 
he answered that he would give her twenty 
thousand crowns for her dowry, and half his 
estate at his death : so this odd match was 
quickly agreed on, and Baptista went to 
apprise his shrewish daughter of her lover's 
addresses, and sent her in to Petruchio to listen 
to his suit. 

In the mean time Petruchio was settling with 
himself the mode of courtship he should pursue: 
and he said, " I will woo her with some spirit 
when she comes. If she rails at me, why then 
I will tell her she sings as sweetly as a night- 
ingale ; and if she frowns, I will say she looks 
as clear as roses newly washed with dew. If 
she will not speak a word, I will praise the 
eloquence of her language ; and if she bids me 
leave her, I will give her thanks, as if she bid 
me stay with her a week." Now the stately 
Katherine entered, and Petruchio first addressed 
her with " Good morrow, Kate, for that is your 
name, I hear." Katherine, not liking this 
plain salutation, said disdainfully, " They call 
me Katherine who do speak to me." "You 
lie," replied the lover ; " for you are called 
plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes 
Kate the Shrew ; but, Kate, you are the pret- 
tiest Kate in Christendom, and therefore, Kate, 
hearing your mildness praised in every town, 
I am come to woo you for my wife." 

A strange courtship they made of it. She 
in loud and angry terms showing him how 
justly she had gained the name of Shrew, 
while he still praised her sweet and courteous 
words, till at length, hearing her father coming, 
he said (intending to make as quick a wooing 
as possible), " Sweet Katherine, let us set this 
idle chat aside, for your father has consented 
that you shall be my wife, your dowry is 



56 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



agreed on, and whether you will or no, I will 
marry you." 

And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told 
him his daughter had received him kindly, and 
that she had promised to be married the next 
Sunday. This Katherine denied, saying she 
would rather see him hanged on Sunday, and 
reproached her father for wishing to wed her 
to such a mad-cap ruffian as Petruchio. Petru- 
chio desired her father not to regard her angry 
words, for they had agreed she should seem 
reluctant before him, but that when they were 
alone, he had found her very fond and loving ; 
and he said to her, " Give me your hand, Kate ; 
I will go to Venice to buy you fine apparel 
against our wedding day. Provide the feast, 
father, and bid the wedding guests. I will be 
sure to bring rings, fine array, and rich clothes, 
that my Katherine may be fine ; and kiss me, 
Kate, for we will be married on Sunday." 

On the Sunday all the wedding guests were 
assembled, but they waited long before Petru- 
chio came, and Katherine wept for vexation 
to think that Petruchio had only been making 
a jest of her. At last, however, he appeared, 
but he brought none of the bridal finery he 
had promised Katherine, nor was he dressed 
himself like a bridegroom, but in strange dis- 
ordered attire, as if he meant to make a sport 
of the serious business he came about ; and his 
servant and the very horses on which they 
rode were in like manner in mean and fantastic 
fashion habited. 

Petruchio could not be persuaded to change 
his dress ; he said Katherine was to be married 
to him, and not to his clothes ; and finding it 
was in vain to argue with him, to the church 
they went, he still behaving in the same mad 
way, for when the priest asked Petruchio if 
Katherine should be his wife, he swore so loud 
that she should, that all amazed the priest let 
fall his book, and as he stooped to take it up, 
this mad-brained bridegroom gave him such a 
cuff, that down fell the priest and his book 
again. And all the while they were being 
married he stamped and swore so, that the 
high-spirited Katherine trembled and shook 
with fear. After the ceremony was over, 
while they were yet in the church, he called 
for wine, and drank a loud health to the com- 
pany, and threw a sop which was at the bottom 
of the glass full in the sexton's face ; giving no 
other reason for this strange act, than that the 
sexton's beard grew thin and hungerly, and 
seemed to ask the sop as he was drinking. 
Never sure was there such a mad marriage ; 
but Petruchio did but put this wildness on, the 
better to succeed in the plot he had formed to 
tame his shrewish wife. 

Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage 
feast, but when they returned from church, 
Petruchio, taking hold of Katherine, declared 
his intention of carrying his wife home instantly ; 
and no remonstrance of his father-in-law, or 



angry words of the enraged Katherine, could 
make him change his purpose ; he claimed a 
husband's right to dispose of his wife as he 
pleased, and away he hurried Katherine off : 
he seeming so daring and resolute that no one 
dared attempt to stop him. 

Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable 
horse, lean and lank, which he had picked out 
for the purpose, and himself and his servant 
no better mounted, they journeyed on through 
rough and miry ways ; and ever when this horse 
of Katherine's stumbled, he would storm and 
swear at the poor jaded beast, who could scarce 
crawl under his burthen, as if he had been the 
most passionate man alive. 

At length, after a weary journey, during 
which Katherine had heard nothing but the 
wild ravings of Petruchio at the servant and 
the horses, they arrived at his house. Petruchio 
welcomed her kindly to her home, but he 
resolved she should have neither rest nor food 
that night. The tables were spread, and supper 
soon served ; but Petruchio, pretending to find 
fault with every dish, threw the meat about 
the floor, and ordered the servants to remove it 
away ; and all this he did, as he said, in love for 
his Katherine, that she might not eat meat that 
was not well dressed. And when Katherine, 
weary and supperless, retired to rest, he found 
the same fault with the bed, throwing the 
pillows and bed-clothes about the room, so that 
she was forced to sit down in a chair, where if 
she chanced to drop asleep, she was presently 
awakened by the loud voice of her husband, 
storming at the servants for the ill-making of 
his wife's bridal bed. 

The next day Petruchio pursued the same 
course, still speaking kind words to Katherine, 
but when she attempted to eat, finding fault 
with everything that was set before her, throwing 
the breakfast on the floor as he had done the 
supper ; and Katherine, the haughty Katherine, 
was fain to beg the servants would bring her 
secretly a morsel of food ; but they, being 
instructed by Petruchio, replied, they dared not 
give her anything unknown to their master. 
" Ah," said she, "did he marry me to famish me? 
Beggars that come to my father's door have 
food given them. But I, who never knew what 
it was to entreat for anything, am starved for 
want of food, giddy for want of sleep, with oaths 
kept waking, and with brawling fed ; and that 
which vexes me more than all, he does it under 
the name of perfect love, pretending that if I 
sleep or eat it were present death to me." 
Here her soliloquy was interrupted by the 
entrance of Petruchio : he, not meaning she 
should be quite starved, had brought her a 
small portion of meat, and he said to her, 
" How fares my sweet Kate ? Here, love, you 
see how diligent I am, I have dressed your 
meat myself. I am sure this kindness merits 
thanks. What, not a word ? Nay then you 
love not the meat, and all the pains I have 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 



57 



taken is to no purpose." He then ordered the 
servant to take the dish away. Extreme hunger, 
which had abated the pride of Katherine, made 
her say, though angered to the heart, " I pray 
you let it stand." But this was not all Petru- 
chio intended to bring her to, and he replied, 
" The poorest service is repaid with thanks, and 
so shall mine before you touch the meat." On 
this Katherine brought out a reluctant " I thank 
you, sir." And now he suffered her to make a 
slender meal, saying, " Much good may it do 
your gentle heart, Kate : eat apace ! And 
now, my honey love, we will return to your 
father's house, and revel it as bravely as the 
best, with silken coats and caps and gold en rings, 
with ruffs and scarfs and fans and double change 
of finery ; " and to make her believe he really 
intended to give her these gay things, he called 
in a tailor and a haberdasher, who brought some 
new clothes he had ordered for her, and then 
giving her plate to the servant to take away, 
before she had half satisfied her hunger, he 
said, " What ! have you dined ? " The haber- 
dasher presented a cap, saying, " Here is the 
cap your worship bespoke ;" on which Petruchio 
began to storm afresh, saying, the cap was 
moulded in a porringer and that it was no 
bigger than a cockle or walnut shell : desiring 
the haberdasher to take it away and make a 
bigger. Katherine said, " I will have this ; all 
gentlewomen wear such caps as these." "When 
you are gentle," replied Petruchio, " you shall 
have one too, and not till then." The meat 
Katherine had eaten had a little revived her 
fallen spirits, and she said, " Why, sir, I trust 
I may have leave to speak, and speak I will. I 
am no child, no babe ; your betters have endured 
to hear me say my mind ; and if you cannot, you 
had better stop your ears." Petruchio would 
not hear these angry words, for he had happily 
discovered a better way of managing his wife 
than keeping up a jangling argument with her : 
therefore his answer was, " Why, you say true, 
it is a paltry cap, and I love you for not liking 
it." " Love me, or love me not," said Katherine, 
"I like the cap, and I will have this cap or none." 
"You say you wish to see the gown," said Petru- 
chio, still affecting to misunderstand her. The 
tailor then came forward and showed her a fine 
gown he had made for her. Petruchio, whose 
intent was that she should have neither cap nor 
gown, found as much fault with that. " O 
mercy, Heaven ! " said he, " what stuff is here ! 
What, do you call this a sleeve ? it is like a 
demi-cannon, carved up and down like an apple- 
tart." The tailor said, "You bid me make it 
according to the fashion of the times ; " and 
Katherine said she never saw a better fashioned 
gown. This was enough for Petruchio ; and 
privately desiring these people might be paid 
for their goods, and excuses made to them for 
the seemingly strange treatment he bestowed 
upon them, he with fierce words and furious 
gestures drove the tailor and the haberdasher 



out of the room: and then turning to Katherine 
he said, " Well, come, my Kate, we will go to 
your father's even in these mean garments we 
now wear." And then he ordered his horses, 
affirming they should reach Baptista's house by 
dinner-time, for that it was but seven o'clock. 
Now it was not early morning, but the very 
middle of the day, when he spoke this ; there- 
fore Katherine ventured to say, though modest- 
ly, being almost overcome by the vehemence 
of his manner, " I dare assure you, sir, it is two 
o'clock, and will be supper-time before we 
get there." But Petruchio meant that she 
should be so completely subdued, that she 
should assent to everything he said, before he 
carried her to her father ; and therefore, as if 
he were lord even of the sun, and could com- 
mand the hours, he said it should be what time 
he pleased to have it, before he set forward ; 
" For," said he, " whatever I say or do, you still 
are crossing it. I will not go to-day, and when 
I go, it shall be what o'clock I say it is. " Another 
day Katherine was forced to practise her newly- 
found obedience, and not till he had brought 
her proud spirit to such a perfect subjec- 
tion, that she dared not remember there was 
such a word as contradiction, "would Petru- 
chio allow her to go to her father's house ; and 
even while they were upon their journey thither, 
she was in danger of being turned back again, 
only because she happened to hint it was the 
sun, when he affirmed the moon shone brightly 
at noon-day. " Now by my mother's son," said he, 
" and that is myself, it shall be the moon, or 
stars, or what I list, before I journey to your 
father's house." He then made as if he were 
going back again ; but Katherine, no longer 
Katherine the Shrew, but the obedient wife, 
said, " Let us go forward, I pray, now we have 
come so far, and it shall be the sun, or moon, or 
what you please ; and if you please to call it a 
rush candle henceforth, I vow it shall be so 
for me." This he was resolved to prove, there- 
fore he said again, " I say, it is the moon." " I 
know it is the moon," replied Katherine. "You 
lie ! it is the blessed sun," said Petruchio. "Then 
it is the blessed sun," replied Katherine ; "but 
sun it is not when you say it is not. What you 
will have it named, even so it is, and so it ever 
shall be for Katherine." Now then he suffered 
her to proceed on her journey ; but further to 
try if this yielding humour would last, he ad- 
dressed an old gentleman they met on the road 
as if he had been a young woman, saying to him, 
" Good morrow, gentle mistress ; " and asked 
Katherine if she had ever beheld a fairer gentle- 
woman, praising the red and white of the old 
man's cheeks, and comparing his eyes to two 
bright stars ; and again he addressed him, 
saying, " Fair lovely maid, once more good day 
to you ! " and said to his wife, " Sweet Kate, 
embrace her for her beauty's sake." The 
now completely vanquished Katherine quickly 
adopted her husband's opinion, and made her 



58 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



speech in like sort to the old gentleman, saying 
to him, " Young budding virgin, you are fair, 
and fresh, and sweet : whither are you going, 
and where is your dwelling ? Happy are the 
parents of so fair a child." " Why, how now, 
Kate," said Petruchio ; " I hope you are not 
mad ? This is a man, old and wrinkled, faded 
and withered, and not a maiden, as you say he 
is." On this Katherine said, " Pardon me, old 
gentleman ; the sun has so dazzled my eyes, 
that everything I look on seemeth green. Now 
I perceive you are a reverend father : I hope 
you will pardon me for my sad mistake." " Do, 
good old grandsire," said Petruchio, " and tell 
us which way you are travelling. "We shall 
be glad of your good company, if you are going 
our way." The old gentleman replied, " Fair 
sir, and you my merry mistress, your strange 
encounter has much amazed me. My name is 
Vincentio, and I am going to visit a son of mine 
who lives at Padua." Then Petruchio knew the 
old gentleman to be the father of Lucentio, 
a young gentleman who was to be married to 
Baptista's younger daughter, Bianca ; and he 
made Vincentio very happy by telling him the 
rich marriage his son was about to make ; and 
they all journeyed on pleasantly together till 
they came to Baptista's house, where there was 
a large company assembled to celebrate the 
wedding of Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista 
having willingly consented to the marriage 
of Bianca when he had got Katherine off his 
hands. 

When they entered, Baptista welcomed them 
to the wedding-feast, and there was present also 
another newly-married pair. 

Lucentio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, 
the other new-married man, could not forbear 
sly jests, which seemed to hint at the shrewish 
disposition of Petruchio's wife ; and these fond 
bridegrooms seemed highly pleased with the 
mild tempers of the "ladies they had chosen, 
laughing at Petruchio for his less fortunate 
choice. Petruchio took little notice of their 
jokes till the ladies were retired after dinner, 
and then he perceived Baptista himself joined 
in the laugh against him ; for when Petruchio 
affirmed that his wife would prove more obedient 
than theirs, the father of Katherine said, " Now, 
in good sadness, son Petruchio, I fear you have 
got the veriest shrew of all." " Well," said 
Petruchio, " I say no, and therefore for assur- 
ance that I speak the truth, let us each one send 
for his wife, and he whose wife is most obedient 
to come at first when she is sent for, shall win 
a wager which we will propose." To this the 
other two husbands willingly consented, for 
they were quite confident that their gentle 
wives would prove more obdient than the 
headstrong Katherine ; and they proposed a 
wager of twenty crowns, but Petruchio merrily 
said he would lay as much as that upon his 
hawk or hound, but twenty times as much 
upon his wife. Lucentio and Hortensio raised 



the wager to a hundred crowns, and Lu- 
centio first sent his servant to desire Bianca 
would come to him. But the servant returned, 
and said, " Sir, my mistress sends you word she 
is busy and cannot come." " How," said Petru- 
chio, "does she say she is busy and cannot 
come ? Is that an answer for a wife ? " Then 
they laughed at him, and said it would be well if 
Katherine did not send him a worse answer. 
And now it was Hortensio's turn to send for 
his wife ; and he said to his servant, " Go, and 
entreat my wife to come to me." " Oh ho ! 
entreat her ! " said Petruchio, " Nay, then, she 
needs must come." "I am afraid, sir," said 
Hortensio, " your wife will not be entreated." 
But presently this civil husband looked a little 
blank, when the servant returned without his 
mistress ; and he said to him, " How now ! 
where is my wife ?" "Sir," said the servant," my 
mistress says you have some goodly jest in hand, 
and therefore she will not come. She bids you 
come to her." " Worse and worse ! " said 
Petruchio ; and then he sent his servant, saying, 
"Sirrah, go to your mistress, and tell her I 
command her to come to me." The company 
had scarcely time to think she would not obey 
this summons, when Baptista, all in amaze, 
exclaimed, " Now, by my hollidam, here comes 
Katherine !" and she entered, saying meekly to 
Petruchio, "What is your will, sir, that yousend 
for me!" "Where is your sister and Hortensio's 
wife ?" said he. Katherine replied, " They sit 
conferring by the parlour-fire." " Go fetch 
them hither ! " said Petruchio. Away went Ka- 
therine without reply to perform her husband's 
command. " Here is a wonder," said Lucentio, 
"if you talk of a wonder." " And so it is," said 
Hortensio ; " I marvel what it bodes." "Marry 
peace it bodes," said Petruchio, "and love, 
and quiet life, and right supremacy ; and, to 
be short, everything that is sweet and happy." 
Katherine's father, overjoyed to see this re- 
formation in his daughter, said, "Now fair 
befal thee, son Petruchio ! you have won the 
wager, and I will add another twenty thousand 
crowns to her dowry, as if she were another 
daughter, for she is changed as if she had never 
been." "Nay," said Petruchio, " I will win the 
wager better yet, and show more signs of her 
new-built virtue and obedience." Katherine 
now entering with the two ladies, he continued, 
" See where she comes, and brings your froward 
wives as prisoners to her womanly persuasion. 
Katherine, that cap of yours does not become 
you ; off with that bauble and throw it under 
foot." Katherine instantly took off her cap, 
and threw it down. " Lord ! " said Hortensio's 
wife, "may I never have a cause to sigh till I 
am brought to such a silly pass ! " And Bianca, 
she too said, "Fie, what foolish duty call you 
this ! " On this Bianca's husband said to her, 
" I wish your duty were as foolish too ! The 
wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, has cost 
me a hundred crowns since dinner-time." 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 



59 



" The more fool you," said Bianca, "for laying 
on my duty." " Katherine," said Petruchio, "I 
charge you tell these headstrong women what 
duty they owe their lords and husbands." And 
to the wonder of all present, the reformed 
shrewish lady spoke as eloquently in praise of 



the wife-like duty of obedience, as she had 
practised it implicitly in a ready submission to 
Petruchio's will. And Katherine once more 
became famous in Padua, not as heretofore, as 
Katherine the shrew,but as Katherine, the most 
obedient and duteous Avife in Padua. 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 



The states of Syracuse and Ephesus being 
at variance, there was a cruel law made at 
Ephesus, ordaining that if any merchant of 
Syracuse was seen in the city of Ephesus, he 
was to be put to death, unless he could pay 
a thousand marks for the ransom of his life. 

iEgeon, an old merchant of Syracuse, was 
discovered in, the streets of Ephesus, and 
brought before the duke, either to pay this 
heavy fine, or to receive sentence of death. 

JEgeon had no money to pay the fine, and 
the duke, before he pronounced the sentence 
of death upon him, desired him to relate the 
history of his life, and to tell for what cause 
he had ventured to come to the city of Ephesus, 
which it was death for any Syracusan merchant 
to enter. 

JEgeon said, that he did not fear to die, for 
sorrow had made him weary of his life, but 
that a heavier task could not have been im- 
posed upon him than to relate the events of 
his unfortunate life. He then began his own 
history in the following words : 

" I was born at Syracuse, and brought up to 
the profession of a merchant. I married a 
lady, with whom I lived very happily, but 
being obliged to go to Epidamnium, I was de- 
tained there by my business six months, and 
then, finding I should be obliged to stay some 
time longer, I sent for my wife, who, as soon 
as she arrived, was brought to bed of two sons. 
and what was very strange, they were both so 
exactly alike, that it was impossible to distin- 
guish the one from the other. At the same 
time that my wife was brought to bed of these 
twin-boys, a poor woman in the inn where my 
wife lodged was brought to bed of two sons, 
and these twins were as much like each other 
as my two sons were. The parents of these 
children being exceeding poor, I bought the 
two boys, and brought them up to attend upon 
my sons. 

" My sons were very fine children, and my 
wife was not a little proud of two such boys ; 
and she daily wishing to return home, I 
unwillingly agreed, and in an evil hour we got 
on shipboard ; for we had not sailed above a 
league from Epidamnium before a dreadful 
storm arose, which continued with such 
violence, that the sailors seeing no chance of 



saving the ship, crowded into the boat to save 
their own lives, leaving us alone in the ship, 
which we every moment expected would be 
destroyed by the fury of the storm. 

" The incessant weeping of my wife, and the 
piteous complaints of the pretty babes, who, 
not knowing what to fear, wept for fashion, 
because they saw their mother weep, filled me 
with terror for them, though I did not for 
myself fear death ; and all my thoughts were 
bent to contrive means for their safety. I tied 
my youngest son to the end of a small spare 
mast, such as seafaring men provide against 
storms ; at the other end I bound the youngest 
of the twin-slaves, and at the same time I 
directed my wife how to fasten the other 
children in like manner to another mast. She 
thus having the care of the two eldest children 
and I of the two younger, we bound ourselves 
separately to these masts with the children ; 
and but for this contrivance we had all been 
lost, for the ship split on a mighty rock and 
was dashed in pieces, and we clinging to these 
slender masts were supported above the water, 
where I, having the care of two children, 
was unable to assist my wife, who with the 
other children was soon separated from me ; 
but while they were yet in my sight, they were 
taken up by a boat of fishermen, from Corinth 
(as I supposed), and seeing them in safety, I 
had no care but to struggle with the wild sea 
waves, to preserve my dear son and the 
youngest slave. At length we in our turn 
were taken up by a ship, and the sailors, 
knowing me, gave us kind welcome and assist- 
ance, and landed us in safety at Syracuse ; but 
from that sad hour I have never known what 
became of my wife and eldest child. 

" My youngest son, and now my only care, 
when he was eighteen years of age began to 
be inquisitive after his mother and his brother, 
and often importuned me that he might take 
his attendant, the young slave, who had also 
lost his brother, and go in search of them : 
at length I unwillingly gave consent, for 
though I anxiously desired to hear tidings of 
my wife and eldest son, yet in sending my 
younger one to find them, I hazarded the loss 
of him also. It is now seven years since my 
son left me ; five years have I passed in tra- 



GO 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



veiling through the world in search of him : I 
have been in farthest Greece, and through the 
bounds of Asia ; and coasting homewards, I 
landed here in Ephesus, being unwilling to 
leave any place unsought that harbours men ; 
but this day must end the story of my life, and 
happy should I think myself in my death, if I 
were assured my wife and sons were living." 

Here the hapless iEgeon ended the account 
of his misfortunes : and the duke pitying this 
unfortunate father, who had brought upon 
himself this great peril by his love for his lost 
son, said, if it were not against the laws, which 
his oath and dignity did not permit him to 
alter, he would freely pardon him : yet, instead 
of dooming him to instant death, as the strict 
letter of the law required, he would give him 
that day to try if he could beg or borrow the 
money to pay the fine. 

This day of grace did seem no great favour 
to iEgeon, for not knowing any man in Ephesus, 
there seemed to him but little chance that any 
stranger would lend or give him a thousand 
marks to pay the fine : and, helpless and hope- 
less of any relief, he retired from the presence 
of the duke in the custody of a jailor. 

iEgeon supposed he knew no person in 
Ephesus ; but at the very time he was in 
danger of losing his life, through the careful 
search he was making after his youngest son, 
that son and his eldest son also were both in 
the city of Ephesus. 

JEgeon 's sons, besides being exactly alike 
in face and person, were both named alike, 
being both called Antipholis, and the two twin 
slaves were also both named Dromio. iEgeon's 
youngest son, Antipholis of Syracuse, he whom 
the old man had come to Ephesus to seek, 
happened to arrive at Ephesus with his slave 
Dromio that very same day that iEgeon did ; 
and he being also a merchant of Syracuse, he 
would have been in the same danger that his 
father was, but by good fortune, he met a friend 
who told him the peril an old merchant of 
Syracuse was in, and advised him to pass for a 
merchant of Epidamnium : this Antipholis 
agreed to do, and he was sorry to hear one of 
his own countrymen was in this danger, but he 
little thought this old merchant was his own 
father. 

The eldest son of iEgeon (who must be 
called Antipholis of Ephesus, to distinguish him 
from his brother Antipholis of Syracuse) had 
lived at Ephesus twenty years, and, being a 
rich man, was well able to have paid the money 
for the ransom of his father's life ; but Anti- 
pholis knew nothing of his father, being so 
young when he was taken out of the sea with 
his mother by the fishermen, that he only re- 
membered he had been so preserved, but he 
had no recollection of either his father or his 
mother ; the fishermen, who took up this 
Antipholis and his mother and the young slave 



from her (to the great grief of that unhappy 
lady), intending to sell them. 

Antipholis and Dromio were sold by them to 
Duke Menaphon, a famous warrior, who was 
uncle to the duke of Ephesus, and he carried 
the boys to Ephesus, when he went to visit the 
duke his nephew. 

The duke of Ephesus taking a liking to 
young Antipholis, when he grew up, made him 
an officer in his army, in which he distinguished 
himself by his great bravery in the wars, where 
he saved the life of his patron the duke, who 
rewarded his merit by marrying him to Adriana 
a rich lady of Ephesus ; with whom he was 
living (his slave Dromio still attending him) at 
the time his father came there. 

Antipholis of Syracuse, when he parted with 
his friend, who advised him to say he came 
from Epidamnium, gave his slave Dromio some 
money to carry to the inn where he intended 
to dine, and in the mean time he said he would 
walk about and view the city, and observe the 
manners of the people. 

Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when 
Antipholis was dull and melancholy, he used 
to divert himself with the odd humours and 
merry jests of his slave, so that the freedoms 
of speech he allowed in Dromio were greater 
than is usual between masters and their 
servants. 

When Antipholis of Syracuse had sent 
Dromio away, he stood awhile thinking over 
his solitary wanderings in search of his mother 
and his brother, of whom in no place where he 
landed could he hear the least tidings ; and he 
said sorrowfully to himself, " I am like a drop 
of water in the ocean, which seeking to find its 
fellow-drop, loses itself in the wide sea. So I 
unhappily, to find a mother and a brother, do 
lose myself." 

While he was thus meditating on his weary 
travels which had hitherto been so useless, 
Dromio, (as he thought) returned. Antipholis, 
wondering that he came back so soon, asked 
him where he had left the money. Now it was 
not his own Dromio, but the twin-brother that 
lived with Antipholis of Ephesus, that he 
spoke to. The two Dromios and the two 
Antipholises were still as much alike as iEgeon 
had said they were in their infancy; therefore 
no wonder Antipholis thought it was his own 
slave returned, and asked him why he came 
back so soon. Dromio replied, " My mistress 
sent me to bid you come to dinner. The capon 
burns and the pig falls from the spit, and the 
meat will be all cold if you do not come home." 
"These jests are out of season," said Anti- 
pholis : " where did you leave the money ? " 
Dromio still answering him that his mistress 
had sent him to fetch Antipholis to dinner : 
"What mistress?" said Antipholis. "Why, 
your worship's wife, sir," replied Dromio. 
Antipholis having no wife, he was very angry 
with Dromio, and said, " Because I familiarly 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 



6J 



sometimes chat with you, you presume to jest 
with me in this free manner. I am not in a 
sportive humour now : where is the money ? 
we being strangers here, how dare you trust so 
great a charge from your own custody?" 
Dromio hearing his master, as he thought him, 
talk of their being strangers, supposing Anti- 
pholis was jesting, replied merrily, " I pray you 
sir, jest as you sit at dinner : I had no charge 
but to fetch you home, to dine with my mistress 
and her sister." Now Antipholis lost all 
patience, and beat Dromio, who ran home, and 
told his mistress that his master had refused 
to come to dinner, and said that he had no 
wife. 

Adriana, the wife of Antipholis of Ephesus, 
was very angry, when she heard that her hus- 
band said he had no wife ; for she was of 
a jealous temper, and she said her husband 
meant that he loved another lady better than 
herself ; and she began to fret, and say unkind 
words of jealousy and reproach of her husband ; 
and her sister Luciana, who lived with her, 
tried in vain to persuade her out of her ground- 
less suspicions. 

Antipholis of Syracuse went to the inn, and 
found Dromio with the money in safety there, 
and seeing his own Dromio, he was going again 
to chide him for his free jests, when Adriana 
came up to him, and not doubting but it was 
her husband she saw, she began to reproach 
him for looking strange upon her (as well he 
might, never having seen this angry lady 
before); and then she told him how well he 
loved her before they were married, and that 
now he loved some other lady instead of her. 
" How comes it now, my husband," said she, 
u O how comes it that I have lost your love ?" 
" Plead you to me, fair dame ?" said the 
astonished Antipholis. It was in vain he told 
her he was not her husband, and that he had 
been in Ephesus but two hours ; she insisted on 
his going home with her, and Antipholis at last, 
being unable to get away, went with her to his 
brother's house, and dined with Adriana and 
her sister, the one calling him husband, and 
the other brother, he, all amazed, thinking he 
must have been married to her in his sleep, or 
that he was sleeping now. And Dromio, who 
followed them, was no less surprised, for the 
cook-maid, who was his brother's wife, also 
claimed him for her husband. 

While Antipholis of Syracuse was dining 
with his brother's wife, his brother, the real 
husband, returned home to dinner with his slave 
Dromio ; but the servants would not open the 
door, because their mistress had ordered them 
not to admit any company ; and when they 
repeatedly knocked, and said they were Anti- 
pholis and Dromio, the maids laughed at them, 
and said that Antipholis was at dinner with 
their mistress, and Dromio was in the kitchen ; 
and though they almost knocked the door down, 
they could not gain admittance, and at last 



Antipholis went away very angry, and strangely 
surprised at hearing a gentleman was dining 
with his wife. 

When Antipholis of Syracuse had finished 
his dinner, he was so perplexed at the lady's 
still persisting in calling him husband, and at 
hearing that Dromio had also been claimed 
by the cook-maid, that he left the house, as 
soon as he could find any pretence to get away ; 
for though he was very much pleased with 
Luciana, the sister, yet the jealous-tempered 
Adriana he disliked very much, nor was Dromio 
at all better satisfied with his fair wife in the 
kitchen ; therefore both master and man were 
glad to get away from their new wives as fast 
as they could. 

The moment Antipholis of Syracuse had left 
the house, he was met by a goldsmith, who 
mistaking him, as Adriana had done, for Anti- 
pholis of Ephesus, gave him a gold chain, call- 
ing him by his name ; and when Antipholis 
would have refused the chain, saying it did 
not belong to him, the goldsmith replied he 
made it by his own orders ; and went away, 
leaving the chain in the hands of Antipholis, 
who ordered his man Dromio to get his things 
on board a ship, not choosing to stay in a place 
any longer where he met with such strange 
adventures that he surely thought himself 
bewitched. 

The goldsmith who had given the chain to 
the wrong Antipholis, was arrested imme- 
diately after for a sum of money he owed ; and 
Antipholis, the married brother, to whom the 
goldsmith thought he had given the chain, 
happened to come to the place where the 
officer was arresting the goldsmith, who, when 
he saw Antipholis, asked him to pay for the 
gold chain he had just delivered to him, the 
price amounting to nearly the same sum as 
that for which he had been arrested. Anti- 
pholis denying the having received the chain, 
and the goldsmith persisting to declare that he 
had but a few minutes before given it to him, 
they disputed this matter a long time, both 
thinking they were right, for Antipholis knew 
the goldsmith never gave him the chain, and, 
so like were the two brothers, the goldsmith 
was as certain he had delivered the chain into 
his hands, till at last the officer took the gold- 
smith away to prison for the debt he owed, and 
at the same time the goldsmith made the officer 
arrest Antipholis for the price of the chain ; so 
that at the conclusion of their dispute, Anti- 
pholis and the merchant were both taken away 
to prison together. 

As Antipholis was going to prison, he met 
Dromio of Syracuse, his brother's slave, and 
mistaking him for his own, he ordered him to 
go to Adriana his wife, and tell her to send the 
money for which he was arrested. Dromio 
wondering that his master should send him 
back to the strange house where he dined, and 
from which he had just before been in such 



62 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



haste to depart, did not dare to reply, though 
he came to tell his master the ship was ready 
to sail ; for he saw Antipholis was in no humour 
to be jested with. Therefore he went away, 
grumbling within himself that he must return 
to Adriana's house, " Where," said he, " Dowsa- 
bel claims me for a husband : but I must go, for 
servants must obey their masters' commands." 

Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio 
was returning, he met Antipholis of Syracuse, 
who was still in amaze at the surprising adven- 
tures he met with ; for his brother being well 
known iu Ephesus, there was hardly a man he 
met in the streets but saluted him as an old 
acquaintance : some offered him money which 
they said was owing to him, some invited him 
to come and see them, and some gave him 
thanks for kindnesses they said he had done 
them, — all mistaking him for his brother. A 
tailor showed him some silks he had bought 
for him, and insisted upon taking measure of 
him for some clothes. 

Antipholis began to think he was among a 
nation of sorcerers and witches, and Dromio 
did not at all relieve his master from his be- 
wildered thoughts, by asking him how he got 
free from the officer who was carrying him to 
prison, and giving him the purse of gold which 
Adriana had sent to pay the debt with. This 
talk of Dromio' s, of the arrest and of the prison, 
and of the money he had brought from Adriana, 
perfectly confounded Antipholis, and he said, 
" This fellow Dromio is certainly distracted, 
and we wander here in illusions ;" and quite 
terrified at his own confused thoughts, he cried 
out, " Some blessed power deliver us from this 
strange place !" 

And now another stranger came up to him, 
and she was a lady, and she too called him Anti- 
pholis, and told him he had dined with her that 
day, and asked him for a gold chain which she 
said he had promised to give her. Antipholis 
now lost all patience, and calling her a sorceress, 
he denied that he had ever promised her a 
chain, or dined with her, or had even seen her 
face before that moment. The lady persisted 
in affirming he had dined with her, and had 
promised her a chain, which Antipholis still 
denying, she farther said, that she had given 
him a valuable ring, and if he would not give 
her the gold chain, she insisted upon having 
her own ring again. On this Antipholis became 
quite frantic, and again calling her sorceress 
and witch, and denying all knowledge of her 
or her ring, ran away from her, leaving her 
astonished at his words and his wild looks, for 
nothing to her appeared more certain than that 
he had dined with her, and that she had given 
him a ring, in consequence of his promising to 
make her a present of a gold chain. But this 
lady had fallen into the same mistake the others 
had done, for she had taken him for his bro- 
ther : the married Antipholis had done all the 
things she taxed this Antipholis with. 



"When the married Antipholis was denied 
entrance into his own house (those within sup- 
posing him to be already there), he had gone 
away very angry, believing it to be one of his 
wife's jealous freaks, to which she was very 
subject, and remembering that she had often 
falsely accused him of visiting other ladies, he, 
to be revenged on her for shutting him out of 
his own house, determined to go and dine with 
this lady, and she receiving him with great 
civility, and his wife having so highly offended 
him, Antipholis promised to give her a gold 
chain, which he had intended as a present for 
his wife ; it was the same chain which the gold- 
smith by mistake had given to his brother. 
The lady liked so well the thoughts of having 
a fine gold chain, that she gave the married 
Antipholis a ring ; which when, as she supposed 
(taking his brother for him), he denied, and 
said he did not know her, and left her in such 
a wild passion, she began to think he was cer- 
tainly out of his senses : and presently she 
resolved to go and tell Adriana that her hus- 
band was mad. And while she was telling it 
to Adriana, he came, attended by the jailor 
(who allowed him to come home to get the 
money to pay the debt), for the purse of money, 
which Adriana had sent by Dromio and he had 
delivered to the other Antipholis. 

Adriana believed the story the lady told her 
of her husband's madness must be true, when 
he reproached her for shutting him out of his 
own house ; and remembering how he had 
protested all dinner-time that he was not her 
husband, and had never been in Ephesus till 
that day, she had no doubt that he was mad ; 
she therefore paid the jailor the money, and 
having discharged him, she ordered her servants 
to bind her husband with ropes, and had him 
conveyed into a dark room, and sent for a 
doctor to come and cure him of his madness, 
— Antipholis all the while hotly exclaiming 
against this false accusation, which the exact 
likeness he bore to his brother had brought 
upon him. But his rage only the more con- 
firmed them in the belief that he was mad ; 
and Dromio persisting in the same story, they 
bound him also, and took him away along with 
his master. 

Soon after Adriana had put her husband 
into confinement, a servant came to tell her 
that Antipholis and Dromio must have broken 
loose from their keepers, for that they were 
both walking at liberty in the next street. On 
hearing this, Adriana ran out to fetch him home, 
taking some people with her to secure her hus- 
band again ; and her sister went along with her. 
When they came to the gates of a convent in 
their neighbourhood, there they saw Antipholis 
and Dromio, as they thought, being again de- 
ceived by the likeness of the twin-brothers. 

Antipholis of Syracuse was still beset with 
the perplexities this likeness had brought upon 
him. The chain which the goldsmith had given 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 



6'3 



him was about his neck, and the goldsmith 
was reproaching him for denying that he had 
it, and refusing to pay for it, and Antipholis 
was protesting that the goldsmith freely gave 
him the chain in the morning, and that from 
that hour he had never seen the goldsmith 
again. 

And now Adriana came up to him and 
claimed him as her lunatic husband, who had 
escaped from his keepers ; and the men she 
brought with her were going to lay violent hands 
on Antipholis and Dromio ; but they ran into 
the convent, and Antipholis begged the abbess 
to give him shelter in her house. 

And now came out the lady abbess herself 
to inquire into the cause of this disturbance. 
She was a grave and venerable lady, and wise 
to judge of what she saw, and she would not 
too hastily give up the man who had sought 
protection in her house ; so she strictly ques- 
tioned the wife about the story she told of her 
husband's madness, and she said, " What is the 
cause of this sudden distemper of your hus- 
band's ? Has he lost his wealth at sea ? Or 
is it the death of some dear friend that has dis- 
turbed his mind?" Adriana replied, that no 
such things as these had been the cause. 
" Perhaps," said the abbess, " he has fixed his 
affections on some other lady than you, his 
wife ; and that has driven him to this state." 
Adriana said she had long thought the love of 
some other lady was the cause of his frequent 
absences from home. Now it was not his love 
for another, but the teasing jealousy of his 
wife's temper, that often obliged Antipholis to 
leave his home ; and (the abbess suspecting 
this from the vehemence of Adriana's manner) 
to learn the truth she said, " You should have 
reprehended him for this." " Why so I did," 
replied Adriana. a Ay," said the abbess, " but 
perhaps not enough." Adriana, willing to con- 
vince the abbess that she had said enough to 
Antipholis on this subject, replied, " It was the 
constant subject of our conversation : in bed I 
would not let him sleep for speaking of it. At 
table I would not let him eat for speaking of 
it. When I was alone with him, I talked of 
nothing else ; and in company I gave him 
frequent hints of it. Still all my talk was how 
vile and bad it was in him to love any lady 
better than me." 

The lady abbess, having drawn this full 
confession from the jealous Adriana, now said, 
" £ nd therefore comes it that your husband 
is mad. The venomous clamour of a jealous 
woman is a more deadly poison than a mad 
dog's tooth. It seems his sleep was hindered by 
your railing ; no wonder that his head is light : 
and his meat was sauced with your upbraid- 
ings ; unquiet meals make ill digestions, and 
that has thrown him into this fever. You say 
his sports were disturbed by your brawls ; 
being debarred from the enjoyment of society 
and recreation, what could ensue but dull 



melancholy and comfortless despair ? The 
consequence is, then, that your jealous fits 
have made your husband mad." 

Luciana would have excused her sister, 
saying, she always reprehended her husband 
mildly ; and she said to her sister, "Why do you 
hear these rebukes without answering them !" 
But the abbess had made her so plainly perceive 
her fault, that she could only answer, " She has 
betrayed me to my own reproof." 

Adriana, though ashamed of her own con- 
duct, still insisted on having her husband 
delivered up to her ; but the abbess would 
suffer no person to enter her house, nor would 
she deliver up this unhappy man to the care 
of the jealous wife, determining herself to use 
gentle means for his recovery, and she retired 
into her house again, and ordered her gates to 
be shut against them. 

During the course of this eventful day, in 
which so many errors had happened from the 
likeness the twin brothers bore to each other, 
old iEgeon's day of grace was passing away, 
it being now near sunset : and at sunset he 
was doomed to die, if he could not pay the 
money. 

The place of his execution was near this 
convent, and here he arrived just as the abbess 
retired into the convent ; the duke attending 
in person, that if any offered to pay the money, 
he might be present to pardon him. 

Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, 
and cried out to the duke for justice, telling 
him that the abbess had refused to deliver up 
her lunatic husband to her care. While she 
was speaking, her real husband and his servant 
Dromio, who had got loose, came before the 
duke to demand justice, complaining that his 
wife had confined him on a false charge of 
lunacy ; and telling in what manner he had 
broken his bands, and eluded the vigilance of 
his keepers. Adriana was strangely surprised 
to see her husband, when she thought he had 
been within the convent. 

iEgeon, seeing his son, concluded this was 
the son who had left him to go in search of his 
mother and his brother ; and he felt secure 
that this dear son would readily pay the money 
demanded for his ransom. He therefore spoke 
to Antipholis in words of fatherly affection, 
with joyful hope that he should now be released. 
But to the utter astonishment of iEgeon, his 
son denied all knowledge of him, as well he 
might, for this Antipholis had never seen his 
father since they were separated in the storm in 
his infancy ; but while the poor old iEgeon was 
in vain endeavouring to make his son acknow- 
ledge him, thinking surely that either his griefs 
and the anxieties he had suffered had so strangely 
altered him that his son did not know him, or 
else that he was ashamed to acknowledge his 
father in his misery ; in the midst of this 
perplexity, the lady abbess and the other 
Antipholis and Dromio came out, and the 



64 



TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 



wondering Adriana saw two husbands and two 
Dromios standing before her. 

And now these riddling errors, which had so 
perplexed them all, were clearly made out. 
"When the duke saw the two Antipholises and 
the two Dromios both so exactly alike, he at 
once conjectured aright of these seeming 
mysteries, for he remembered the story iEgeon 
had told him in the morning ; and he said these 
men must be the two sons of iEgeon, and their 
twin slaves. 

But now an unlooked-for joy indeed com- 
pleted the history of iEgeon ; and the tale he 
had in the morning told in sorrow, and under 
sentence of death, before the setting sun went 
down was brought to a happy conclusion, for 
the venerable lady abbess made herself known 
to be the long-lost wife of iEgeon, and the fond 
mother of the two Antipholises. 

"When the fishermen took the eldest Anti- 
pholis and Dromio away from her, she entered 
a nunnery, and by her wise and virtuous con- 
duct she was at length made lady abbess of 
this convent, and in discharging the rites of 
hospitality to an unhappy stranger, she had 
unknowingly protected her own son. 

Joyful congratulations and affectionate greet- 
ings between these long separated parents and 
their children made them for a while for- 
get that iEgeon was yet under sentence of 



death ; but when they were become a little 
calm, Antipholis of Ephesus offered the duke 
the ransom-money for his father's life ; but 
the duke freely pardoned iEgeon, and would 
not take the money. And the duke went with 
the abbess and her newly-found husband and 
children into the convent, to hear this happy 
family discourse at leisure of the blessed 
ending of their adverse fortunes. And the two 
Dromios' humble joy must not be forgotten ; 
they had their congratulations and greetings 
too, and each Dromio pleasantly complimented 
his brother on his good looks, being well 
pleased to see his own person (as in a glass) 
show so handsome in his brother. 

Adriana had so well profited by the good 
counsel of her mother-in-law, that she never 
after cherished unjust suspicions, or was 
jealous of her husband. 

Antipholis of Syracuse married the fair 
Luciana, the sister of his brother's wife ; and the 
good old iEgeon, with his wife and sons, lived 
at Ephesus many years. Nor did the unra- 
velling of these perplexities so entirely remove 
every ground of mistake for the future, but 
that sometimes, to remind them of adventures 
past, comical blunders would happen, and the 
one Antipholis, and the one Dromio, be mis- 
taken for the other, making altogether a 
pleasant and diverting Comedy of Errors. 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



In the city of Vienna there once reigned 
a duke, of such a mild and gentle temper, that 
he suffered his subjects to neglect the laws 
with impunity ; and there was in particular 
one law, the existence of which was almost 
forgotten, the duke never having put it in force 
during his whole reign. This was a law dooming 
any man to the punishment of death, who 
should live with a woman that was not his 
wife ; and this law, through the lenity of the 
duke, being utterly disregarded, the holy insti- 
tution of marriage became neglected, and com- 
plaints were every day made to the duke by 
the parents of the young ladies in Vienna, that 
their daughters had been seduced from their 
protection, and were living as the companions 
of single men. 

The good duke perceived with sorrow this 
growing evil among his subjects ; but he thought 
that a sudden change in himself from the in- 
dulgence he had hitherto shown, to the strict 
severity requisite to check this abuse, would 
make his people (who had hitherto loved him) 
consider him as a tyrant : therefore he deter- 
mined to absent himself a while from his duke- 
dom, and depute another to the full exercise 



of his power, that the law against these dis- 
honourable lovers might be put in effect, 
without giving offence by an unusual severity 
in his own person. 

Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a 
saint in Vienna for his strict and rigid life, 
was chosen by the duke as a fit person to under- 
take this important charge ; and when the 
duke imparted his design to lord Escalus, 
his chief counsellor, Escalus said, " If any man 
in Vienna be of worth to undergo such ample 
grace and honour, it is lord Angelo." And 
now the duke departed from Vienna under 
pretence of making a journey into Poland, 
leaving Angelo to act as the lord deputy in his 
absence ; but the duke's absence was only a 
feigned one, for he privately returned to Vienna, 
habited like a friar, with the intent to watch 
unseen the conduct of the saintly-seeming 
Angelo. 

It happened, just about the time that Angelo 
was invested with his new dignity, that a gentle- 
man, whose name was Claudio, had seduced a 
young lady from her parents ; and for this 
offence, by command of the new lord deputy, 
Claudio was taken up and committed to prison, 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



65 



and by virtue of the old law which had been so 
long neglected, Angelo sentenced Claudio to be 
beheaded. Great interest was made for the 
pardon of young Claudio, and the good old 
lord Escalus himself interceded for him. "Alas," 
said he, "this gentleman whom I would save 
had an honourable father, for whose sake I pray 
you pardon the young man's transgression." 
But Angelo replied, "We must not make a 
scarecrow of the law, setting it up to frighten 
birds of prey, till custom, finding it harm- 
less, makes it their perch, and and not their 
terror. Sir, he must die." 

Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in 
the prison, and Claudio said to him, " I pray 
you, Lucio, do me this kind service. Go to my 
sister Isabel, who this day proposes to enter 
the convent of Saint Clare ; acquaint her with 
the danger of my state ; implore her that she 
make friends with the strict deputy ; bid her 
go herself to Angelo. I have great hopes in 
that ; for she can discourse with prosperous 
art, and well she can persuade ; besides, there 
is a speechless dialect in youthful sorrow, such 
as moves men." 

Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he 
said, that day entered upon her noviciate in 
the convent, and it was her intent, after passing 
through her probation as a novice, to take the 
veil, and she was inquiring of a nun concerning 
the rules of the convent, when they heard the 
voice of Lucio, who, as he entered that reli- 
gious house, said, " Peace be in this place ! " 
" Who is it that speaks ? " said Isabel. " It is a 
man's voice," replied the nun : " Gentle Isabel, 
go to him and learn his business ; you may, I 
may not. When you have taken the veil, you 
must not speak with men but in the presence of 
the prioress ; then if you speak, you must not 
show your face, or if you show your face, you 
must not speak." " And have you nuns no far- 
ther privileges ? " said Isabel. " Are not these 
large enough ? " replied the nun. " Yes, truly," 
said Isabel : " I speak not as desiring more, 
but rather wishing a more strict restraint upon 
the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare." 
Again they heard the voice of Lucio, and the 
nun said, " He calls again. I pray you answer 
him." Isabel then went out to Lucio, and in 
answer to his salutation said, " Peace and pros- 
perity ! Who is it that calls ? " Then Lucio, 
approaching her with reverence, said, " Hail, 
virgin, if such you be, as the roses in your 
cheeks proclaim you are no less ! can you bring 
me to the sight of Isabel, a novice of this place, 
and the fair sister to her unhappy brother Clau- 
dio ? " " Why her unhappy brother ? " said 
Isabel, " let me ask ; for I am that Isabel, and 
his sister." " Fair and gentle lady," he replied, 
" your brother kindly greets you by me ; he is 
in prison." "Woe is me! for what?" said Isabel. 
Lucio then told her Claudio was imprisoned 
for seducing a young maiden. " Ah," said she, 
" I fear it is my cousin Juliet." Juliet and 



Isabel were not related, but they called each 
other cousin in remembrance of their school- 
days' friendship ; and as Isabel knew that 
Juliet loved Claudio, she feared she had been 
led by her affection for him into this trans- 
gression. " She it is," replied Lucio. " Why, 
then, let my brother marry Juliet," said Isa- 
bel. Lucio replied that Claudio would gladly 
marry Juliet, but that the lord deputy had 
sentenced him to die for his offence ; " unless," 
said he, "you have the grace by your fair prayer 
to soften Angelo ; and that is my business 
between you and your poor brother." " Alas," 
said Isabel, "what poor ability is there in me to 
do him good ? I doubt I have no power to move 
Angelo." " Our doubts are traitors," said 
Lucio, " and make us lose the good we might 
often win, by fearing to attempt it. Go to 
lord Angelo ! When maidens sue, and kneel, 
and weep, men give like gods." " I will see 
what I can do," said Isabel, " I will but stay to 
give the Prioress notice of the affair, and then 
I will go to Angelo. Commend me to my 
brother : soon at night I will send him word of 
my success." 

Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw her- 
self on her knees before Angelo, saying, " I am 
a woful suitor to your honour, if it will please 
your honour to hear me." " Well, what is your 
suit ? " said Angelo. She then made her peti- 
tion in the most moving terms for her brother's 
life. But Angelo said, " Maiden, there is no 
remedy : your brother is sentenced, and he 
must die." " O just but severe law ! " said 
Isabel : " I had a brother then — Heaven keep 
your honour ! " and she was about to depart. 
But Lucio, who had accompanied her, said, 
" Give it not over so ; return to him again, en- 
treat him, kneel down before him, hang upon his 
gown . You are too cold : if you should need a 
pin, you could not with a more tame tongue 
desire it." Then again Isabel on her knees 
implored for mercy. " He is sentenced," said 
Angelo ; " it is too late." " Too late ! " said 
Isabel ; " Why, no, I that do speak a word, 
may call it back again. Believe this, my lord, 
no ceremony that to great ones belongs, not 
the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, the 
marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, be- 
comes them with one half so good a grace as 
mercy does." " Pray you begone," said Angelo. 
But still Isabel entreated ; and she said, " If 
my brother had been as you, and you as he, you 
might have slipped like him,but he like you would 
not have been so stern. I would to Heaven I 
had your power, and you were Isabel. Should 
it then be thus ? No, I would tell you what it 
were to be a judge, and what a prisoner." " Be 
content, fair maid," said Angelo ; " it is the 
law, not I, condemns your brother. Were he 
my kinsman, my brother, or my son, it should 
be thus with him. He must die to-morrow." 
" To-morrow ?" said Isabel ; "oh that is sudden ! 
spare him, spare him ; he is not prepared for 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



death. Even for our kitchens we kill the fowl 
in season ; shall we serve Heaven with less 
respect than we minister to our gross selves ? 
Good, good my lord, bethink you, none have 
died for my brother's offence, though many 
have committed it. So you would be the first 
that gives this sentence, and he the first that 
suffers it. Go to your own bosom, my lord ; 
knock there, and ask your heart what it does 
know that is like my brother's fault ; if it con- 
fess a natural guiltiness, such as his is, let it 
not sound a thought against my brother's life !" 
Her last words more moved Angelo than all 
she had before said, for the beauty of Isabel 
had raised a guilty passion in his heart, and he 
began to form thoughts of dishonourable love, 
such as Claudio's crime had been ; and the con- 
flict in his mind made him to turn away from 
Isabel: but she called him back, saying, "Gentle 
my lord, turn back : hark, how I will bribe you. 
Good my lord, turn back ! " " How, bribe me ! " 
said Angelo, astonished that she should think 
of offering him a bribe. "Ay,'' said Isabel, 
" with such gifts that Heaven itself shall share 
with you ; not with golden treasures, or those 
glittering stones whose price is either rich or 
poor as fancy values them, but with true 
prayers that shall be up to Heaven before sun- 
rise — prayers from preserved souls, from fasting- 
maids whose minds are dedicated to nothing- 
temporal." "Well, come to me to-morrow," said 
Angelo. And for this short respite of her 
brother's life, and for this permission that she 
might be heard again, she left him with the 
joyful hope that she should at last prevail over 
his stern nature : and as she went away, she 
said, " Heaven keep your honour safe ! Heaven 
save your honour ! " Which when Angelo 
heard, he said within his heart, " Amen, I 
would be saved from thee and from thy 
virtues ;" and then, affrighted at his own evil 
thoughts, he said, " What is this ? What is 
this ? Do I love her, that I desire to hear her 
speak again, and feast upon her eyes ? What 
is it I dream on ? The cunning enemy of 
mankind, to catch a saint, with saints does bait 
the hook. Never could an immodest woman 
once stir my temper, but this virtuous woman 
subdues me quite. Even till now, when 
men were fond, I smiled, and wondered at 
them." 

In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo 
suffered more that night than the prisoner he 
had so severely sentenced ; for in the prison 
Claudio was visited by the good duke, who in 
his friar's habit taught the young man the way 
to Heaven, preaching to him the words of peni- 
tence and peace. But Angelo felt all the pangs 
of irresolute guilt ; now wishing to seduce 
Isabel from the paths of innocence and honour, 
and now suffering remorse and horror for a 
crime as yet but intentional. But in the end 
his evil thoughts prevailed ; and he, who had 
so lately started at the offer of a bribe, re- 



solved to tempt this maiden with so high a 
bribe as she might not be able to resist, even 
with the precious gift of her dear brother's 
life. 

When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo 
desired she might be admitted alone to his 
presence : and being there, he said to her, if 
she would yield to him her virgin honour, and 
transgress even as Juliet had done with Clau- 
dio, he would give her her brother's life ; " for," 
said he, " I love you, Isabel." "My brother," said 
Isabel, "did so love Juliet, and yet you tell me he 
shall die for it." " But,'' said Angelo, " Claudio 
shall not die if you will consent to visit me by 
stealth at night, even as Juliet left her father's 
house at night to come to Claudio." Isabel, in 
amazement at his words, that he should tempt 
her to the same fault for which he passed sen- 
tence of death upon her brother, said, " I would do 
as much for my poor brother asfor myself ; that 
is, were I un der sentence of death, the impression 
of keen whips I would wear as rubies, and go to 
my death as to a bed that longing I had been 
sick for, ere I would yield myself up to this 
shame." And then she told him, she hoped he 
only spoke these words to try her virtue. But he 
said, " Believe me on my honour, my words ex- 
press my purpose." Isabel,angeredtotheheartto 
hear him use the word Honour to express such 
dishonourable purposes, said, "Ha! little honour, 
to be much believed ; and most pernicious pur- 
pose. I will proclaim thee, Angelo ; look for 
it ! Sign me a present pardon for my brother, 
or I will tell the world aloud what man thou 
art ! " " Who will believe you, Isabel ? " said 
Angelo : " my unsoiled name, the austereness 
of my life, my word vouched against yours, will 
outweigh your accusation. Redeem your bro- 
ther by yielding to my will, or he shall die to- 
morrow. As for you, say what you can, my 
false will overweigh your true story. Answer 
me to-morrow." 

" To whom should I complain ? Did I tell 
this, who would believe me ? " said Isabel, as 
she went towards the dreary prison where her 
brother was confined. When she arrived there, 
her brother was in pious conversation with the 
duke, who in his friar's habit had also visited 
Juliet, and brought both these guilty lovers to 
a proper sense of their fault ; and unhappy 
Juliet, with tears and a true remorse confessed, 
that she was more to blame than Claudio, in 
that she willingly consented to his dishonour- 
able solicitations. 

As Isabel entered the room where Claudio 
was confined, she said, " Peace be here, grace, 
and good company ! " " Who is there ?" said 
the disguised duke : " come in ; the wish 
deserves a welcome." " My business is a word 
or two with Claudio," said Isabel. Then the 
duke left them together, and desired the 
provost, who had the charge of the prisoners, 
to place him where he might overhear their 
conversation. 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



07 



" Now, sister, what is the comfort ! " said 
Claudio. Isabel told him he must prepare for 
death on the morrow. a Is there no remedy?" 
said Claudio. " Yes, brother," replied Isabel, 
" there is ; but such a one, as if you consented 
to it, would strip your honour from you, and 
leave you naked." " Let me know the point," 
said Claudio. " 0, I do fear you, Claudio ! " 
replied his sister ; " and I quake lest you should 
wish to live, and more respect the trifling term 
of six or seven winters added to your life, than 
your perpetual honour ! Do you dare to die ? 
The sense of death is most in apprehension ; 
and the poor beetle that we tread upon, feels 
a pang as great as when a giant dies." " Why 
do you give me this shame?" said Claudio. 
" Think you I can fetch a resolution from 
flowery tenderness ? If I must die, I will en- 
counter darkness as a bride, and hug it in my 
arms." " There spoke my brother," said Isabel ; 
" there my father's grave did utter forth a 
voice. Yes, you must die ; yet, would you 
think it, Claudio ? this outward-sainted deputy, 
if I would yield to him my virgin honour, 
would grant your life. Oh, were it but my life, 
I would lay it down for your deliverance as 
frankly as a pin ! " " Thanks, dear Isabel ! " 
said Claudio. "Be ready to die to-morrow," 
said Isabel. " Death is a fearful thing," said 
Claudio. " And shamed life a hateful," replied 
his sister. But the thoughts of death now 
overcame the constancy of Claudio's temper, 
and terrors, such as the guilty only at their 
deaths do know, assailing him, he cried out, 
" Sweet sister, let me live ! The sin you do to 
save a brother's life, nature dispenses with the 
deed so far, that it becomes a virtue." " 
faithless coward ! O dishonest wretch ? " said 
Isabel : " would you preserve your life by your 
sister's shame ? O fie, fie, fie ! I thought, my 
brother, you had in you such a mind of honour, 
that had you twenty heads to render up on 
twenty blocks, you would have yielded them 
up all, before your sister should stoop to such 
dishonour." " Nay, hear me, Isabel ! " said 
Claudio. But what he would have said in 
defence of his weakness, in desiring to live by 
the dishonour of his virtuous sister, was inter- 
rupted by the entrance of the duke ; who said, 
" Claudio, I have overheard what has passed 
between you and your sister. Angelo had 
never the purpose to corrupt her ; what he 
said, has only been to make trial of her virtue. 
She having the truth of honour in her, has 
given him that gracious denial which he is 
most glad to receive. There is no hope that 
he will pardon you ; therefore pass your hours 
in prayer, and make ready for death." Then 
Claudio repented of his weakness, and said, 
" Let me ask my sister's pardon ! I am so out 
of love with life, that I will sue to be rid of it." 
And Claudio retired, overwhelmed with shame 
and sorrow for his fault. 

The duke, being now alone with Isabel, com- 



mended her virtuous resolution, saying, "The 
hand that made you fair, has made you good." 
" Oh " said Isabel, " how much is the ffood duke 
deceived in Angelo ! if ever he return, and I 
can speak to him, I will discover his govern- 
ment." Isabel knew not that she was even 
now making the discovery she threatened. 
The duke replied, "That shall not be much 
amiss ; yet as the matter now stands, Angelo 
will repel your accusation ; therefore lend an 
attentive ear to my advisings. I believe that 
you may most righteously do a poor wronged 
lady a merited benefit, redeem your brother 
from the angry law, do no stain to your own 
most gracious person, and much please the 
absent duke, if perad venture he shall ever 
return to have notice of this business." Isabel 
said, she had a spirit to do anything he desired, 
provided it was nothing wrong. "Virtue is 
bold, and never fearful," said the duke : and 
then he asked her, if she had ever heard of 
Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the great 
soldier who was drowned at sea. " I have 
heard of the lady," said Isabel, "and good 
words went with her name." "This lady," 
said the duke, "is the wife of Angelo ; but her 
marriage dowry was on board the vessel in 
which her brother perished, and mark how 
heavily this befel to the poor gentlewoman ! 
for, beside the loss of a most noble and re- 
nowned brother, who in his love towards her 
was ever most kind and natural, in the wreck 
of her fortune she lost the affections of her 
husband, the well-seeming Angelo ; who, pre- 
tending to discover some dishonour in this 
honourable lady (though the true cause was 
the loss of her dowry), left her in her tears, 
and dried not one of them with his comfort. 
His unjust unkindness, that in all reason should 
have quenched her love, has, like an impedi- 
ment in the current, made it more unruly, and 
Mariana loves her cruel husband with the full 
continuance of her first affection." The duke 
then more plainly unfolded his plan. It was, 
that Isabel should go to lord Angelo, and seem- 
ingly consent to come to him as he desired, at 
midnight ; that by this means she would obtain 
the promised pardon ; and that Mariana should 
go in her stead to the appointment, and pass 
herself upon Angelo in the dark for Isabel. 
" Nor, gentle daughter," said the feigned friar, 
" fear you to do this thing ; Angelo is her hus- 
band, and to bring them thus together is no 
sin." Isabel being pleased with this project, 
departed to do as he directed her ; and he went 
to apprise Mariana of their intention. He had 
before this time visited this unhappy lady in 
his assumed character, giving her religious in- 
struction and friendly consolation, at which 
times he had learned her sad story from her own 
lips ; and now she, looking upon him as a holy 
man, readily consented to be directed by him 
in this undertaking. 
When Isabel returned from her interview 



68 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



with Angelo to the house of Mariana, where 
the duke had appointed her to meet him, he 
said, "Well met, and in good time ; what is the 
news from this good deputy?" Isabel related 
the manner in which she. had settled the affair. 
" Angelo," said she, " has a garden surrounded 
with a brick wall, on the western side of which 
is a vineyard, and to that vineyard is a gate." 
And then she showed to the duke and Mariana 
two keys that Angelo had given her ; and she 
said, "This bigger key opens the vineyard gate ; 
this other a little door which leads from the 
vineyard to the garden. There I have made 
my promise at the dead of night to call upon 
him, and have got from him his word of assur- 
ance for my brother's life. I have taken a due 
and wary note of the place ; and with whisper- 
ing and most guilty diligence he showed me 
the way twice over." " Are there no other 
tokens agreed upon between you, that Mariana 
must observe?" said the duke. "No, none," 
said Isabel, " only to go when it is dark. I 
have told him my time can be but short ; for 
I have made him think a servant comes along 
with me, and that this servant is persuaded I 
come about my brother." The duke commended 
her discreet management, and she turning to 
Mariana, said, " Little have you to say to 
Angelo, when you depart from him, but soft 
and low, Remember now my brother /" 

Mariana was that night conducted to the 
appointed place by Isabel, who rejoiced that 
she had, as she supposed, by this device pre- 
served both her brother's life and her own 
honour. But that her brother's life was safe 
the duke was not well satisfied, and there- 
fore at midnight he again repaired to the 
prison, and it was well for Claudio that he did 
so, else would Claudio have that night been 
beheaded ; for soon after the duke entered the 
prison, an order came from the cruel deputy, 
commanding that Claudio should be beheaded, 
and his head sent to him by five o'clock in the 
morning. But the duke persuaded the provost 
to put off the execution of Claudio, and to 
deceive Angelo by sending him the head of a 
man who died that morning in the prison. 
And to prevail upon the provost to agree to 
this, the duke, whom still the provost suspected 
not to be anything more or greater than he 
seemed, showed the provost a letter written 
with the duke's hand, and sealed with his seal, 
which when the provost saw, he concluded this 
friar must have some secret order from the 
absent duke, and therefore he consented to 
spare Claudio ; and he cut off the dead man's 
head, and carried it to Angelo. 

Then the duke, in his own name, wrote to 
Angelo a letter, saying that certain accidents 
had put a stop to his journey, and that he should 
be in Vienna by the following morning, requir- 
ing Angelo to meet him at the entrance of the 
city, there to deliver up his authority ; and the 
duke also commanded it to be proclaimed, that 



if any of his subjects craved redress for injustice, 
they should exhibit their petitions in the street 
on his first entrance into the city. 

Early in the morning Isabel came to the 
prison, and the duke, who there awaited her 
coming, for secret reasons thought it good to 
tell her that Claudio was beheaded ; therefore 
when Isabel inquired if Angelo had sent the 
pardon for her brother, he said, " Angelo has 
released Claudio from this world. His head is 
off, and sent to the deputy." The much-grieved 
sister cried out, " O unhappy Claudio, wretched 
Isabel, injurious world, most wicked Angelo !" 
The seeming friar bid her take comfort, and 
when she was become a little calm, he 
acquainted her with the near prospect of the 
duke's return, and told her in what manner she 
should proceed in preferring her complaint 
against Angelo ; and he bade her not to fear if 
the cause should seem to go against her for 
awhile. Leaving Isabel sufficiently instructed, 
he next went to Mariana, and gave her counsel 
in what manner she also should act. 

Then the duke laid aside his friar's habit, 
and in his own royal robes, amidst a joyful 
crowd of his faithful subjects assembled to greet 
his arrival, entered the city of Vienna, where 
he was met by Angelo, who delivered up his 
authority in the proper form. And there came 
Isabel, in the manner of a petitioner for redress, 
and said, " Justice, most royal duke ! I am the 
sister of one Claudio, who, for the seducing a 
young maid, was condemned to lose his head. 
I made my suit to lord Angelo for my brother's 
pardon. It were needless to tell your grace 
how I prayed and kneeled, how he repelled me, 
and how I replied ; for this was of much length. 
The vile conclusion I now begin with grief and 
shame to utter. Angelo would not but by my 
yielding to his dishonourable love release my 
brother ; and after much debate within myself, 
my sisterly remorse overcame my virtue, and 
I did yield to him. But the next morning be- 
times Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent a 
warrant for my poor brother's head !" The 
duke affected to disbelieve her story ; and 
Angelo said that grief for her brother's death, 
who had suffered by the due course of the law, 
had disordered her senses. And now another 
suitor approached, which was Mariana ; and 
Mariana said, " Noble prince, as there comes 
light from heaven, and truth from breath, as 
there is sense in truth, and truth in virtue, I 
am this man's wife, and, my good lord, the 
words of Isabel are false, for the night she says 
she was with Angelo, I passed that night with 
him in the garden-house. As this is true, let 
me in safety rise, or else for ever be fixed here 
a marble monument." Then did Isabel appeal 
for the truth of what she had said to friar 
Lodowick, that being the name the duke had 
assumed in his disguise. Isabel and Mariana 
had both obeyed his instructions in what they 
said, the duke intending that the innocence of 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



69 



Isabel should be plainly proved in that public 
manner before the whole city of Vienna ; but 
Angelo little thought that it was from such a 
cause that they thus differed in their story, and 
he hoped from their contradictory evidence to 
be able to clear himself from the accusation of 
Isabel ; and he said, assuming the look of 
offended innocence, " I did but smile till now ; 
but, good my lord, my patience here is touched, 
and I perceive these poor distracted women 
are but the instruments of some greater one, 
who sets them on. Let me have way, my lord, 
to find this practice out." " Ay, with all my 
heart," said the duke, " and punish them to the 
height of your pleasure. You, lord Escalus, 
sit with lord Angelo, lend him your pains to 
discover this abuse ; the friar is sent for that 
set them on, and when he comes, do with your 
injuries as may seem best in any chastisement. 
I for awhile will leave you, but stir not you, 
lord Angelo, till you have well determined 
upon this slander." The duke then went away, 
leaving Angelo well pleased to be deputed 
judge and umpire in his own cause. But the 
duke was absent only while he threw off his 
royal robes and put on his friar's habit ; and 
in that disguise again he presented himself 
before Angelo and Escalus : and the good old 
Escalus, who thought Angelo had been falsely 
accused, said to the supposed friar, " Come, sir, 
did you set these women on to slander lord 
Angelo ?" He replied, "Where is the duke ? 
It is he should hear me speak." Escalus said, 
" The duke is in us, and we will hear you. 
Speak justly." u Boldly at least," retorted the 
friar ; and then he blamed the duke for leaving 
the cause of Isabel in the hands of him she had 
accused, and spoke so freely of many corrupt 
practices he had observed, while, as he said, he 
had been a looker-on in Vienna, that Escalus 
threatened him with the torture for speaking 
words against the state, and for censuring the 
conduct of the duke, and ordered him to be 
taken away to prison. Then, to the amazement 
of all present, and to the utter confusion of 
Angelo, the supposed friar threw off his dis- 
guise, and they saw it was the duke himself. 

The duke first addressed Isabel. He said to 
her, " Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now 
your prince, but with my habit I have not 
changed my heart. I am still devoted to your 
service." " give me pardon," said Isabel, 
" that I, your vassal, have employed and 
troubled your unknown sovereignty." He 
answered that he had most need of forgiveness 
from her, for not having prevented the death 
of her brother — for not yet would he tell her 
that Claudio was living ; meaning first to make 
a farther trial of her goodness. Angelo now 
knew the duke had been a secret witness of 
his bad deeds, and he said, " my dread lord, 
I should be guiltier than my guiltiness to think 
I can be undiscernible, when I perceive your 
grace, like power divine, has looked upon my 



actions. Then, good prince, no longer prolong 
my shame, but let my trial be my own confes- 
sion. Immediate sentence and death is all the 
grace I beg." The duke replied, " Angelo, thy 
faults are manifest. "We do condemn thee to 
the very block where Claudio stooped to death ; 
and with like haste away with him ; and for 
his possessions, Mariana, we do instate and 
widow you withal, to buy you a better husband." 
" O my dear lord," said Mariana, " I crave no 
other, nor no better man : " and then on her 
knees, even as Isabel had begged the life of 
Claudio, did this kind wife of an ungrateful 
husband beg the life of Angelo ; and she said, 
" Gentle my liege, O good my lord ! Sweet 
Isabel, take my part ! Lend me your knees, 
and all my life to come I will lend you all my 
life to do you service ! " The duke said, 
" Against all sense you importune her. Should 
Isabel kneel down to beg for mercy, her bro- 
ther's ghost would break his paved bed, and 
take her hence in horror." Still Mariana said, 
" Isabel, sweet Isabel, do but kneel by me, hold 
up your hand, say nothing ! I will speak all. 
They say, best men are moulded out of faults, 
and for the most part become much the better 
for being a little bad. So may my husband. 
O Isabel, will you not lend a knee ?" The 
duke then said, " He dies for Claudio." But 
much pleased was the good duke, when his 
own Isabel, from whom he expected all gra- 
cious and honourable acts, kneeled down before 
him, and said, " Most bounteous sir, look, if it 
please you, on this man condemned, as if my 
brother lived. I partly think a due sincerity 
governed his deeds, till he did look on me. 
Since it is so, let him not die ! My brother 
had but justice, in that he did the thing for 
which he died." 

The duke, as the best reply he could make 
to this noble petitioner for her enemy's life, 
sending for Claudio from his prison-house, 
where he lay doubtful of his destiny, presented 
to her this lamented brother living ; and he 
said to Isabel, " Give me your hand, Isabel ; 
for your lovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say 
you will be mine, and he shall be my brother 
too." By this time lord Angelo perceived he 
was safe ; and the duke, observing his eye to 
brighten up a little, said, " Well, Angelo, look 
that you love your wife ; her worth has ob- 
tained your pardon : joy to you, Mariana! Love 
her, Angelo ! I have confessed her, and know 
her virtue." Angelo remembered, when dressed 
in a little brief authority, how hard his heart 
had been, and felt how sweet is mercy. 

The duke commanded Claudio to marry 
Juliet, and offered himself again to the accept- 
ance of Isabel, whose virtuous and noble con- 
duct had won her prince's heart. Isabel, not 
having taken the veil, was free to marry ; and 
the friendly offices, while hid under the disguise 
of a humble friar, which the noble duke had 
done for her, made her with grateful joy accept 



70 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



the honour he offered her ; and when she 
became duchess of Vienna, the excellent ex- 
ample of the virtuous Isabel worked such a 
complete reformation among the young ladies 
of that city, that from that time none ever fell 



into the transgression of Juliet, the repentant 
wife of the reformed Claudio. And the 
mercy-loving duke long reigned with his 
beloved Isabel, the happiest of husbands and 
of princes. 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



Sebastian and his sister Yiola, a young 
gentleman and lady of Messaline, were twins, 
and (which was accounted a great wonder) 
from their birth they so much resembled each 
other, that, but for the difference in their dress, 
they could not be known apart. They were 
both born in one hour, and in one hour they 
were both in danger of perishing, for they were 
shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria as they 
were making a sea- voyage together. The ship, 
on board of which they were, split on a rock in 
a violent storm, and a very small number of 
the ship's company escaped with their lives. 
The captain of the vessel, with a few of the 
sailors that were saved, got to land in a small 
boat, and with them they brought Viola safe 
on shore, where she, poor lady, instead of re- 
joicing at her own deliverance, began to lament 
her brother's loss ; but the captain comforted 
her with the assurance, that he had seen her 
brother, when the ship split, fasten himself to 
a strong mast, on which, as long as he could 
see anything of him for the distance, he per- 
ceived him borne up above the waves. Viola 
was much consoled by the hope this account 
gave her, and now considered how she was to 
dispose of herself in a strange country, so far 
from home ; and she asked the captain if he 
knew anything of Illyria. " Ay, very well, 
madam," replied the captain, " for I was born 
not three hours' travel from this place." " Who 
governs here ? " said Viola. The captain told 
her, Illyria was governed by Orsino, a duke 
noble in nature as well as dignity. Viola said, 
she had heard her father speak of Orsino, and 
that he was unmarried then. " And he is so 
now," said the captain ; " or was so very lately ; 
for but a month ago I went from here, and 
then it was the general talk (as you know what 
great ones do the people will prattle of) that 
Orsino sought the love of fair Olivia, a virtuous 
maid, the daughter of a count who died twelve 
months ago, leaving Olivia to the protection of 
her brother, who shortly after died also ; and 
for the love of this dear brother, they say she 
has abjured the sight and company of men." 
Viola, who was herself in such sad affliction 
for her brother's loss, wished she could live 
with this lady who so tenderly mourned a bro- 
ther's death. She asked the captain if he 
could introduce her to Olivia, saying she would 



willingly serve this lady. But he replied, this 
would be a hard thing to accomplish, because 
the lady Olivia would admit no person into her 
house since her brother's death, not even the 
duke himself. Then Viola formed another 
project in her mind, which was, in a man's 
habit to serve the duke Orsino as a page. Tt 
was a strange fancy in a young lady to put on 
male attire, and pass for a boy ; but the forlorn 
and unprotected state of Viola, who was young 
and of uncommon beauty, alone and in a foreign 
land, must plead her excuse. 

She having observed a fair behaviour in the 
captain, and that he showed a friendly concern 
for her welfare, entrusted him with her design, 
and he readily engaged to assist her. Viola 
gave him money, and directed him to furnish 
her with suitable apparel, ordering her clothes 
to be made of the same colour and in the same 
fashion her brother Sebastian used to wear, and 
when she was dressed in her manly garb, she 
looked so exactly like her brother, that some 
strange errors happened by means of their 
being mistaken for each other ; for, as will 
afterwards appear, Sebastian was also saved. 

Viola's good friend, the captain, when he 
had transformed this pretty lady into a gentle- 
man, having some interest at court, got her 
presented to Orsino, under the feigned name 
of Cesario. The duke was wonderfully pleased 
with the address and graceful deportment of 
this handsome youth, and made Cesario one of 
his pages, that being the office Viola wished to 
obtain : and she so well fulfilled the duties of 
her new station, and showed such a ready ob- 
servance and faithful attachment to her lord, 
that she soon became his most favoured attend- 
ant. To Cesario, Orsino confided the whole 
history of his love for the lady Olivia. To 
Cesario he told the long and unsuccessful suit 
he had made to one, who, rejecting his long 
services, and despising his person, refused to 
admit him to her presence ; and for the love 
of this lady, who had so unkindly treated him, 
the noble Orsino, forsaking the sports of the 
field, and all manly exercises in which he used 
to delight, passed his hours in ignoble sloth, 
listening to the effeminate sounds of soft music, 
gentle airs, and passionate love songs ; and, 
neglecting the company of the wise and learned 
lords with whom he used to associate, he was 



TWELFTH NIGHT : OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



71 



now all day long conversing- with young Cesa- 
rio. Unmeet companion no doubt his grave 
courtiers thought Cesario was for their once 
noble master, the great duke Orsino. 

It is a dangerous matter for young maidens 
to be the confidants of handsome young dukes ; 
which Viola too soon found to hersorrow, for all 
that Orsino told her he endured for Olivia, she 
presently perceived she suffered for the love of 
him : and much it moved her wonder, that 
Olivia could be so regardless of this her peer- 
less lord and master, whom she thought no one 
should behold without the deepest admiration ; 
and she ventured gently to hint to Orsino that 
it was pity he should affect a lady who was 
so blind to his worthy qualities ; and she said, 
" If a lady were to love you, my lord, as you 
love Olivia (and perhaps there may be one who 
does), if you could not love her in return, 
would you not tell her that you could not love, 
and must not she be content with this answer ?" 
But Orsino would not admit of this reasoning, 
for he denied that it was possible for any 
woman to love as he did. He said no woman's 
heart was big enough to hold so much love, 
and therefore it was unfair to compare the love 
of any lady for him to his love for Olivia. 
Now though Viola had the utmost deference 
for the duke's opinions, she could not help 
thinking this was not quite true, for she 
thought her heart had full as much love in 
it as Orsino's had ; and she said, " Ah, but I 
know, my lord," " What do you know, Ce- 
sario ? " said Orsino. " Too well I know," 
replied Viola, " what love women may owe to 
men. They are as true of heart as we are. 
My father had a daughter loved a man, as I 
perhaps, were I a woman, should love your 
lordship." " And what is her history ? " said 
Orsino, " A blank, my lord," replied Viola : 
" she never told her love, but let concealment, 
like a worm in the bud, prey on her damask 
cheek. She pined in thought, and with a green 
and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience 
on a monument, smiling at Grief." The duke 
inquired if this lady died of her love, but to this 
question Viola returned an evasive answer ; as 
probably she had feigned the story, to speak 
words expressive of the secret love and silent 
grief she suffered for Orsino. 

While they were talking, a gentleman 
entered whom the duke had sent to Olivia, 
and he said, "So please you, my lord, I might 
not be admitted to the lady, but by her hand- 
maid she returned you this answer : until seven 
years hence, the element itself shall not 
behold her face ; but like a cloistress she will 
walk veiled, watering her chamber with her 
tears for the sad remembrance of her dead 
brother." On hearing this, the duke exclaimed, 
" she that has a heart of this fine frame, to 
pay this debt of love to a dead brother, how 
will she love, when the rich golden shaft has 
touched her heart ! " And then he said to 



Viola, " You know, Cesario, I have told you 
all the secrets of my heart; therefore, good 
youth, go to Olivia's house. Be not denied 
access ; stand at her doors, and tell her there 
your fixed foot shall grow till you have 
audience." "And if I do speak to her, my 
lord, what then ? " said Viola. " O then," re- 
plied Orsino, " unfold to her the passion of my 
love. Make a long discourse to her of my dear 
faith. It will well become you to act my woes, 
for she will attend more to you than to one 
of graver aspect." 

Away then went Viola : but not willingly 
did she undertake this courtship, for she was 
to woo a lady to become a wife to him she 
wished to marry ; but having undertaken the 
affair, she performed it with fidelity ; and Olivia 
soon heard that a youth was at her door who 
insisted upon being admitted to her presence. 
" I told him," said the servant, " that you were 
sick : he said he knew you were, and therefore 
he came to speak with you. I told him that 
you were asleep : he seemed to have a fore- 
knowledge of that too, and said, that therefore 
he must speak with you. What is to be said 
to him. lady? for he seems fortified against all 
denial, and will speak with you, whether you 
will or no." Olivia, curious to see who this 
peremptory messenger might be, desired he 
might be admitted ; and throwing her veil 
over her face, she said she would once more 
hear Orsino's embassy, not doubting but that 
he came from the duke, by his importunity. 
Viola entering, put on the most manly air she 
could assume, and, affecting the fine courtier 
language of great men's pages, she said to the 
veiled lady, " Most radiant, exquisite, and 
matchless beauty, I pray you tell me if you are 
the lady of the house ; for I should be sorry to 
cast away my speech upon another; for, besides 
that it is excellently well penned, I have taken 
great pains to learn it." " Whence come you, 
sir ?" said Olivia. " I can say little more than 
I have studied," replied Viola ; " and that 
question is out of my part." " Are you a 
comedian ? " said Olivia. " No," replied Viola ; 
" and yet I am not that which I play ;" meaning 
that she, being a woman, feigned herself to be a 
man. And again she asked Olivia if she were 
the lady of the house. Olivia said she was ; 
and then Viola, having more curiosity to see 
her rival's features than haste to deliver her 
master's message, said, " Good madam, let me 
see your face." With this bold request Olivia 
was not averse to comply: for this haughty 
beauty, whom the duke Orsino had loved so 
long in vain, at first sight conceived a passion 
for the supposed page, the humble Cesario. 

When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia 
said, "Have you any commission from your 
lord and master to negotiate with my face?" 
And then, forgetting her determination to go 
veiled for seven long years, she drew aside her 
veil, saying, " But I will draw the curtain, and 



72 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



show the picture. Is it not well done ?" 
Viola replied, " It is beauty truly mixed ; the 
red and white upon your cheeks are by Nature's 
own cunning hand laid on. You are the most 
cruel lady living, if you will lead these graces 
to the grave, and leave the world no copy." 
" O sir," replied Olivia, " I will not be so cruel. 
The world may have an inventory of my beauty. 
As item, two lips, indifferent red ; item, two 
grey eyes, with lids to them ; one neck ; one 
chin, and so forth. Were you sent here to 
praise me?" Viola replied, " I see what you 
are : you are too proud, but you are fair. My 
lord and master loves you. O such a love 
could but be recompensed, though you were 
crowned the queen of beauty : for Orsino 
loves you with adoration and with tears, with 
groans that thunder love, and sighs of fire." 
"Your lord," said Olivia, "knows well my 
mind. I cannot love him ; yet I doubt not he 
is virtuous ; I know him to be noble and of 
high estate, of fresh and spotless youth. All 
voices proclaim him learned, courteous, and 
valiant ; yet I cannot love him : he might have 
taken his answer long ago." " If I did love 
you as my master does," said Viola, " I would 
make me a willow cabin at your gates, and 
call upon your name. I would write com- 
plaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in 
the dead of the night : your name should sound 
among the hills, and I would make Echo, the 
babbling gossip of the air, cry out Olivia. O 
you should not rest between the elements of 
earth and air, but you should pity me." " You 
might do much," said Olivia ; " what is your 
parentage 2 " Viola replied, " Above my 
fortunes, yet my state is well. I am a gentle- 
man." Olivia now reluctantly dismissed Viola, 
saying, " Go to your master, and tell him, I 
cannot love him. Let him send no more, unless 
perchance you come again to tell me how he 
takes it." And Viola departed, bidding the 
lady farewell by the name of Fair Cruelty. 
When she was gone, Olivia repeated the words 
Above my fortune, yet my state is well. I am a 
gentleman. And she said aloud, " I will be 
sworn he is ; his tongue, his face, his limbs, 
action, and spirit, plainly show he is a gentle- 
man." And then she wished Cesario was the 
duke ; and perceiving the fast hold he had 
taken on her affections, she blamed herself for 
her sudden love : but the gentle blame which 
people lay upon their own faults has no deep 
root ; and presently the noble lady Olivia so 
far forgot the inequality between her fortunes 
and those of this seeming page, as well as the 
maidenly reserve which is the chief ornament 
of a lady's character, that she resolved to court 
the love of young Cesario, and sent a servant 
after him with a diamond ring, under the pre- 
tence that he had left it with her as a present 
from Orsino. She hoped, by thus artfully 
making Cesario a present of the ring, she should 
give him some intimation of her design ; and 



truly it did make Viola suspect ; for knowing 
that Orsino had sent no ring by her, she 
began to recollect that Olivia's looks and 
manner were expressive of admiration, and she 
presently guessed her master's mistress had 
fallen in love with her. " Alas," said she, " the 
poor lady might as well love a dream. Dis- 
guise, I see, is wicked; for it has caused Olivia 
to breathe as fruitless sighs for me, as I do for 
Orsino." 

Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related 
to her lord the ill success of the negotiation, 
repeating the command of Olivia, that the 
duke should trouble her no more. Yet still 
the duke persisted in hoping that the gentle 
Cesario would in time be able to persuade her 
to show some pity, and therefore he bade him 
he should go to her again the next day. In 
the mean time, to pass away the tedious interval, 
he commanded a song which he loved to be 
sung ; and he said, " My good Cesario, when I 
heard that song last night, methought it did 
relieve my passion much. Mark it, Cesario, it 
is old and plain. The spinsters and the 
knitters when they sit in the sun, and the 
young maids that weave their thread with bone, 
chaunt this song. It is silly, yet I love it, 
for it tells of the innocence of love in the old 
times." 

SONG. 
Come away, come away, Death, 
And in sad cypress let me be laid ; 

Fly away, fly away, breath, 
I am slain by a fair cruel maid 
My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it, 
My part of death no one so true did share it. 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet 
On my black coffin let there be strown ; 

Not a friend, not a friend greet 
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. 
A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where 
Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there. 

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the 
old song, which in such true simplicity de- 
scribed the pangs of unrequited love, and she 
bore testimony in her countenance of feeling 
what the song expressed. Her sad looks were 
observed by Orsino, who said to her, "My 
life upon it, Cesario, though you are so young, 
your eye has looked upon some face that it 
loves ; has it not, boy?" "A little, with your 
leave," replied Viola. " And what kind of 
woman, and of what age is she ?" said Orsino. 
"Of your age, and of your complexion, my 
lord," said Viola ; which made the duke smile 
to hear this fair young boy loved a woman so 
much older than himself, and of a man's dark 
complexion ; but Viola secretly meant Orsino, 
and not a woman like him. 

When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, 
she found no difficulty in gaining access to her. 
Servants soon discover when their ladies 
delight to converse with handsome young mes- 
sengers ; and the instant Viola arrived, the 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



73 



gates were thrown wide open, and the duke's 
page was shown into Olivia's apartment with 
great respect ; and when Viola told Olivia that 
she was come once more to plead in her lord's 
behalf, this lady said, " I desired you never to 
speak of him again ; but if you would under- 
take another suit, I had rather hear you solicit 
than music from the spheres." This was pretty 
plain speaking, but Olivia soon explained 
herself still more plainly, and openly confessed 
her love : and when she saw displeasure with 
perplexity expressed in Viola's face, she said, 
" O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the 
contempt and anger of his lip ! Cesario, by the 
roses of the spring, by maidhood, honour, and 
by truth, I love you so, that, in spite of your 
pride, I have neither wit nor reason to conceal 
my passion." But in vain the lady wooed ; 
Viola hastened from her presence, threatening 
never more to come to plead Orsino's love : and 
all the reply she made to Olivia's fond solicita- 
tions was, a declaration of a resolution Never to 
love any woman. 

No sooner had Viola left the lady than a 
claim was made upon her valour. A gentle- 
man, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had 
learned how that lady had favoured the duke's 
messenger, challenged him to fight a duel. 
What should poor Viola do, who, though she 
carried a man-like outside, had a true woman's 
heart, and feared to look on her own sword ! 

When she saw her formidable rival advanc- 
ing towards her with his sword drawn, she 
began to think of confessing that she was a 
woman : but she was relieved at once from 
her terror, and the shame of such a discovery, 
by a stranger that was passing by, who making 
up to them, as if he had been long known to 
her, and were her dearest friend, said to her 
opponent, " If this young gentleman has done 
offence, I will take the fault on me, and if you 
offend him, I will for his sake defy you." 
Before Viola had time to thank him for his 
protection, or to inquire the reason of his kind 
interference, her new friend met with an enemy 
where his bravery was of no use to him ; for 
the officers of justice coming up in that instant, 
apprehended the stranger in the duke's name 
to answer for an offence he had committed 
some years before : and he said to Viola, 
" This comes with seeking you : " and then he 
asked her for a purse, saying, " Now my neces- 
sity makes me ask for my purse, and it grieves 
me much more for what I cannot do for you, 
than for what befalls myself. You stand 
amazed, but be of comfort." His words did 
indeed amaze Viola, and she protested she 
knew him not, nor had ever received a purse 
from him : but for the kindness he had just 
shown her, she offered him a small sum of money, 
being nearly the whole she possessed. And 
now the stranger spoke severe things, charging 
her with ingratitude and unkindness. He said 
" This youth, whom you see here, I snatched 



from the jaws of death, and for his sake alone 
I came to Illyria, and have fallen into this 
danger." But the officers cared little for 
hearkening to the complaints of their prisoner, 
and they hurried him off, saying, " What is 
that to us ?" And as he was carried away, he 
called Viola by the name of Sebastian, re- 
proaching the supposed Sebastian for disowning 
his friend, as long as he was within hearing. 
When Viola heard herself called Sebastian, 
though the stranger was taken away too hastily 
for her to ask an explanation, she conjectured 
that this seeming mystery might arise from 
her being mistaken for her brother ; and she 
began to cherish hopes that it was her brother 
whose life this man said he had preserved. 
And so indeed it was. The stranger, whose 
name was Anthonio, was a sea-captain. He 
had taken Sebastian up into his ship, when, 
almost exhausted with fatigue, he was floating 
on the mast to which he had fastened himself 
in the storm. Anthonio conceived such a 
friendship for Sebastian, that he resolved to 
accompany him whithersoever he went ; and 
when the youth expressed a curiosity to visit 
Orsino's court, Anthonio, rather than part from 
him, came to Illyria, though he knew if his 
person should be known there, his life would 
be in danger, because in a sea-fight he had 
once dangerously wounded the duke Orsino's 
nephew. This was the offence for which he 
was now made a prisoner. 

Anthonio and Sebastian had landed together 
but a few hours before Anthonio met Viola. 
He had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring 
him to use it freely if he saw anything he 
wished to purchase, telling him he would wait 
at the inn, while Sebastian went to view the 
town : but Sebastian not returning at the time 
appointed, Anthonio had ventured out to look 
for him ; and Viola being dressed the same, 
and in face so exactly resembling her brother, 
Anthonio drew his sword (as he thought) in 
defence of the youth he had saved ; and when 
Sebastian (as he supposed) disowned him, and 
denied him his own purse, no wonder he 
accused him of ingratitude. 

Viola, when Anthonio was gone, fearing a 
second invitation to fight, slunk home as fast 
as she could. She had not been long gone, 
when her adversary thought he saw her return ; 
but it was her brother Sebastian who happened 
to arrive at this place, and he said, " Now, sir, 
have I met with you again ? There's for you ;" 
and struck him a blow. Sebastian was no 
coward ; he returned the blow with interest, 
and drew his sword. 

A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia 
came out of the house, and she too mistaking 
Sebastian for Cesario, invited him to come into 
her house, expressing much sorrow at the 
rude attack he had met with. Though Sebas- 
tian was as much surprised at the courtesy of 
this lady as at the rudeness of his unknown foe, 



74 



TALES FROM SIIAKSPEARE. 



yet lie went very willingly into the house, and 
Olivia was delighted to find Cesario (as she 
thought him) become more sensible of her 
attentions ; for though their features were 
exactly the same, there was none of the con- 
tempt and anger to be seen in his face, which 
she had complained of when she told her love 
to Cesario. 

Sebastian did not at all object to the fond- 
ness the lady lavished on him. He seemed to 
take it in very good part, yet he wondered how 
it had come to pass, and he was rather inclined 
to think Olivia was not in her right senses ; 
but perceiving that she was mistress of a fine 
house, and that she ordered her affairs and 
seemed to govern her family discreetly, and 
that in all but her sudden love for him she 
appeared in the full possession of her reason, 
he well approved of the courtship ; and Olivia, 
finding Cesario in this good humour, and fear- 
ing he might change his mind, proposed that, 
as she had a priest in the house, they should 
be instantly married. Sebastian assented to 
this proposal ; and when the marriage cere- 
mony was over, he left his lady for a short 
time, intending to go and tell his friend 
Anthonio the good fortune that he had met 
with. In the mean time Orsino came to visit 
Olivia ; and at the moment he arrived before 
Olivia's house, the officers of justice brought 
their prisoner, Anthonio, before the duke. 
Viola was with Orsino, her master ; and 
when Anthonio saw Viola, whom he still ima- 
gined to be Sebastian, he told the duke in 
what manner he had rescued this youth 
from the perils of the sea ; and, after fully 
relating all the kindness he had really shown 
to Sebastian, he ended his complaint with 
saying, that for three months, both day and 
night, this ungrateful youth had been with 
him. But now the lady Olivia coming forth 
from her house, the duke could no longer 
attend to Anthonio's story ; and he said, " Here 
comes the countess : now Heaven walks on 
earth ! but for thee, fellow, thy words are 
madness. Three months has this youth 
attended on me ; " and then he ordered 
Anthonio to be taken aside. But Orsino's 
heavenly countess soon gave the duke cause 
to accuse Cesario as much of ingratitude as 
Anthonio had done, for all the words he could 
hear Olivia speak were words of kindness to 
Cesario ; and when he found his page had 
obtained this high place in Olivia's favour, he 
threatened him with all the terrors of his just 
revenge ; and as he was going to depart, he 
called Viola to follow him, saying, " Come, boy, 
with me. My thoughts are ripe for mischief." 
Though it seemed in his jealous rage he was 
going to doom Viola to instant death, yet her 
love made her no longer a coward, and she 
said she would most joyfully suffer death to 
give her master ease. But Olivia would not 
so lose her husband, and she cried, " "Where 



goes my Cesario ? " Viola replied, " After him 
I love more than my life." Olivia however 
prevented their departure by loudly proclaim- 
ing that Cesario was her husband, and sent for 
the priest, who declared that not two hours 
had passed since he had married the lady 
Olivia to this young man. In vain Viola pro- 
tested she was not married to Olivia ; the 
evidence of that lady and the priest made 
Orsino believe that his page had robbed him 
of the treasure he prized above his life. But 
thinking that it was past recal, he was bidding 
farewell to his faithless mistress, and the young 
dissembler, her husband, as he called Viola, 
warning her never to come in his sight again, 
when (as it seemed to them) a miracle appeared! 
for another Cesario entered, and addressed 
Olivia as his wife. This new Cesario was 
Sebastian, the real husband of Olivia : and 
when their wonder had a little ceased at 
seeing two persons with the same face, the 
same voice, and the same habit, the brother 
and sister began to question each other ; for 
Viola could scarce be persuaded that her 
brother was living, and Sebastian knew not 
how to account for the sister he supposed 
drowned being found in the habit of a young 
man. But Viola presently acknowledged that 
she was indeed Viola, and his sister under that 
disguise. 

When all the errors were cleared up which 
the extreme likeness between this twin brother 
and sister had occasioned, they laughed at the 
lady Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had 
made in falling in love with a woman ; and 
Olivia showed no dislike to her exchange, when 
she found she had wedded the brother instead 
of the sister. 

The hopes of Orsino were for ever at an 
end by this marriage of Olivia, and with his 
hopes, all his fruitless love seemed to vanish 
away ; and all his thoughts were fixed on the 
event of his favourite, young Cesario, being 
changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola 
with great attention, and he remembered how 
very handsome he had always thought Cesario 
was, and he concluded she would look very 
beautiful in a woman's attire ; and then he 
remembered how often she had said she loved 
him, which at the time seemed only the dutiful 
expressions of a faithful page; but now he 
guessed that something more was meant, for 
many of her pretty sayings, which were like 
riddles to him, came now into his mind ; and 
he no sooner remembered all these things than 
he resolved to make Viola his wife ; and he 
said to her (he still could not help calling her 
Cesario and boy), " Boy, you have said to me a 
thousand times that you should never love a 
woman like to me, and for the faithful service 
you have done for me, so much beneath your 
soft and tender breeding, and since you have 
called me master so long, you shall now be your 
master's mistress, and Orsino's true duchess." 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 



75 



Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over 
that heart, which she had so ungraciously 
rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her 
house, and offered the assistance of the good 
priest who had married her to Sebastian in 
the morning, to perform the same ceremony in 
the remaining part of the day for Orsino and 
Viola. Thus the twin brother and sister were 



Loth wedded on the same day : the storm and 
shipwreck, which had separated them, being 
the means of bringing to pass their high and 
mighty fortunes. Viola was the wife of 
Orsino the duke of Illyria, and Sebastian the 
husband of the rich and noble countess, the 
lady Olivia. 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 



Timon, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment 
of a princely fortune, affected a humour of 
liberality which knew no limits. His almost 
infinite wealth could not flow in so fast, but 
he poured it out faster upon all sorts and 
degrees of people. Not the poor only tasted 
of his bounty, but great lords did not disdain 
to rank themselves among his dependants and 
followers. His table was resorted to by all the 
luxurious feasters, and his house was open to 
all comers and goers at Athens. His large 
wealth combined with his free and prodigal 
nahire to subdue all hearts to his love ; men 
of all minds and dispositions tendered their 
services to lord Timon, from the glass-faced 
flatterer, whose face reflects as in a mirror the 
present humour of his patron, to the rough and 
unbending cynic, who, affecting a contempt of 
men's persons, and an indifference to worldly 
things, yet could not stand out against the 
gracious manners and munificent soul of lord 
Timon, but would come (against his nature) 
to partake of his royal entertainments, and 
return most rich in his own estimation if he 
had received a nod or a salutation from Timon. 

If a poet had composed a work which wanted 
arecommendatory introduction to the world, he 
had no more to do but to dedicate it to lord 
Timon, and the poem was sure of a sale, besides 
a present purse from the patron, and daily 
access to his house and table. If a painter had 
a picture to dispose of, he had only to take it 
to lord Timon, and pretend to consult his taste, 
as to the merits of it ; nothing more was want- 
ing to persuade the liberal-hearted lord to buy 
it. If a jeweller had a stone of price, or a 
mercer rich costly stuffs, which for their cost- 
liness lay upon his hands, lord Timon's house 
was a ready mart always open, where they 
might get off their wares or their jewellery at 
any price, and the good-natured lord would 
thank them into the bargain, as if they had 
done him a piece of courtesy in letting him 
have the refusal of such precious commodities. 
So that by this means his house was thronged 
with superfluous purchases, of no use but to 
swell uneasy and ostentatious pomp ; and his 



person was still more inconveniently beset 
with a crowd of these idle visiters, lying poets, 
painters, sharking tradesmen, lords, ladies, 
needy courtiers, and expectants, who con- 
tinually filled his lobbies, raining their fulsome 
flatteries in whispers in his ears, sacrificing to 
him with adulation, as to a God, making sacred 
the very stirrup by which he mounted his horse, 
and seeming as though they drank the free air 
but through his permission and bounty. 

Some of these daily dependants were young 
men of birth, who (their means not answering 
to their extravagance) had been put in prison 
by creditors, and redeemed thence by lord 
Timon ; these young prodigals thenceforward 
fastened upon his lordship, as if by common 
sympathy he were necessarily endeared to all 
such spendthrifts and loose livers, who, not 
being able to follow him in his wealth, found 
it easier to copy him in prodigality and copious 
spending of what was not their own. One 
of these flesh-flies was Ventidius, for whose 
debts, unjustly contracted, Timon but lately 
had paid down the sum of five talents. 

But among this confluence, this great flood 
of visiters, none were more conspicuous than 
the makers of presents and givers of gifts. It 
was fortunate for these men, if Timon took 
a fancy to a dog, or a horse, or any piece of 
cheap furniture, which was theirs. The thing 
so praised, whatever it was, was sure to be sent 
the next morning with the compliments of 
the giver for lord Timon's acceptance, and apo- 
logies for the un worthiness of the gift ; and 
this dog or horse, or whatever it might be, 
did not fail to produce from Timon's bounty, 
who would not be outdone in gifts, perhaps 
twenty dogs or horses, certainly presents of 
far richer worth, as these pretended donors 
knew well enough, and that their false pre- 
sents were but the putting out of so much 
money at large and speedy interest. In this 
way lord Lucius had lately sent to Timon a 
present of four milk-white horses trapped in 
silver, which this cunning lord had observed 
Timon upon some occasion to commend ; and 
another, lord Lucullus, had bestowed upon 



76 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



him, in the same pretended way of free gift, a 
brace of greyhounds, whose make and fleetness 
Timon had been heard to admire : these pre- 
sents the easy-hearted lord accepted without 
suspicion of the dishonest views of the pre- 
senters : and the givers of course were rewarded 
with some rich return, a diamond or some jewel 
of twenty times the value of their false and 
mercenary donation. 

Sometimes these creatures would go to work 
in a more direct way, and, with gross and palpable 
artifice, which yet the credulous Timon was 
too blind to see, would affect to admire and 
praise something that Timon possessed, a bar- 
gain that he had bought, or some late purchase ; 
which was sure to draw from this yielding 
and soft-hearted lord a gift of the thing com- 
mended, for no service in the world done for it 
but the easy expense of a little cheap and 
obvious flattery. In this way Timon but the 
other day had given to one of these mean lords 
the bay courser which he himself rode upon, 
because his lordship had been pleased to say 
that it was a handsome beast and went well ; 
and Timon knew that no man ever justly 
praised what he did not wish to possess. For 
lord Timon weighed his friends' affections with 
his own, and so fond was he of bestowing, that 
he could have dealt kingdoms to these supposed 
friends, and never have been weary. 

Not that Timon's wealth all went to enrich 
these wicked flatterers : he could do noble and 
praiseworthy actions ; and when a servant of 
his once loved the daughter of a rich Athenian, 
but could not hope to obtain her by reason that 
in wealth and rank the maid was so far above 
him, lord Timon freely bestowed upon his ser- 
vant three Athenian talents, to make his for- 
tune equal with the dowry which the father of 
the young maid demanded of him who should 
be her husband. But for the most part, knaves 
and parasites had the command of his fortune, 
false friends whom he did not know to be such, 
but, because they flocked around his person, 
he thought they must needs love him ; and 
because they smiled, and flattered him, he 
thought surely that his conduct was approved 
by all the wise and good. And when he was 
feasting in the midst of all these flatterers and 
mock friends, when they were eating him up, 
and draining his fortunes dry with large 
draughts of richest wines drunk to his health 
and prosperity, he could not perceive the dif- 
ference of a friend from a flatterer, but to his 
deluded eyes (made proud with the sight) it 
seemed a precious comfort to have so many, 
like brothers commanding one another's for- 
tunes (though it was his own fortune which 
paid all the cost), and with joy they would run 
over at the spectacle of such, as it appeared to 
him, truly festive and fraternal meeting. 

But while he thus outwent the very heart 
of kindness, and poured out his bounty, as if 
Plutus, the god of gold, had been but his 



steward ; while thus he proceeded without care 
or stop, so senseless of expense that he would 
neither inquire how he could maintain it, nor 
cease his wild flow of riot ; his riches, which 
were not infinite, must needs melt away before 
a prodigality which knew no limits. But who 
should tell him so ? his flatterers ? they had an 
interest in shutting his eyes. In vain did his 
honest steward Flavius try to represent to him 
his condition, laying his accounts before him, 
begging of him, praying of him, with an impor- 
tunity that on any other occasion would have 
been unmannerly in a servant, beseeching him 
with tears, to look into the state of his affairs. 
Timon would still put him off, and turn the 
discourse to something else ; for nothing is so 
deaf to remonstrance as riches turned to 
poverty, nothing is so unwilling to believe its 
situation, nothing is so incredulous to its own 
true state, and hard to give credit to a reverse. 
Often had this good steward, this honest 
creature, when all the rooms of Timon's great 
house have been choked up with riotous feeders 
at his master's cost, when the floors have wept 
with drunken spilling of wine, and every 
apartment has blazed with lights and resounded 
with music and feasting, often had he retired 
by himself to some solitary spot, and wept 
faster than the wine ran from the wasteful 
casks within, to see the mad bounty of his lord, 
and to think, when the means were gone which 
bought him praises from all sorts of people, 
how quickly the breath would be gone of which 
the praise was made ; praises won in feasting 
would be lost in fasting, and at one cloud of 
winter-showers these flies would disappear. 

But now the time was come that Timon 
could shut his ears no longer to the representa- 
tions of this faithful steward. Money must be 
had ; and when he ordered Flavius to sell some 
of his land for that purpose, Flavius informed 
him, what he had in vain endeavoured at several 
times before to make him listen to, that most 
of his land was already sold or forfeited, and 
that all he possessed at present was not enough 
to pay the one half of what he owed. Struck 
with wonder at this representation, Timon 
hastily replied, " My lands extended from 
Athens to Lacedernon." "O, my good lord," 
said Flavius, "the world is but a world, and 
has bounds ; were it all yours to give in a 
breath, how quickly were it gone !" 

Timon consoled himself that no villanous 
bounty had yet come from him, that if he had 
given his wealth away unwisely, it had not 
been bestowed to feed his vices, but to cherish 
his friends ; and he bade the kind-hearted 
steward (who was weeping) to take comfort in 
the assurance that his master could never lack 
means, while he had so many noble friends ; 
and this infatuated lord persuaded himself that 
he had nothing to do but to send and borrow, 
to use every man's fortune (that had ever tasted 
his bounty) in this extremity, as freely as his 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 



77 



own. Then with a cheerful look, as if confident 
of the trial, he severally despatched messengers 
to lord Lucius, to lords Lucullus and Sempro- 
nius, men upon whom he had lavished his gifts 
in past times without measure or moderation ; 
and to Ventidius, whom he had lately released 
out of prison by paying his debts, and who by 
the death of his father was now come into the 
possession of an ample fortune, and well enabled 
to requite Timon's courtesy ; to request of 
Ventidius the return of those five talents which 
he had paid for him, and of each of those noble 
lords the loan of fifty talents : nothing doubting 
that their gratitude would supply his wants (if 
he needed it) to the amount of five hundred 
times fifty talents. 

Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean 
lord had been dreaming over night of a silver 
basin and cup, and when Timon's servant was 
announced, his sordid mind suggested to him 
that this was surely a making out of his dream, 
and that Timon had sent him such a present : 
but when he understood the truth of the matter, 
and that Timon wanted money, the quality of 
his faint and watery friendship showed itself, 
for with many protestations he vowed to the 
servant that he had long foreseen the ruin of his 
master's affairs, and many a time had he come 
to dinner, to tell him of it, and had come again 
to supper to try to persuade him to spend less, 
but he would take no counsel nor warning 
by his coming ; and true it was that he had been 
a constant attender (as he said) at Timon's 
feasts, as he had in greater things tasted his 
bounty ; but that he ever came with that in- 
tent, or gave good counsel or reproof to Timon, 
was a base unworthy lie, which he suitably fol- 
lowed up with meanly offering the servant a 
bribe, to go home to his master and tell him 
that he had not found Lucullus at home. 

As little success had the messenger who was 
sent to lord Lucius. This lying lord, who was 
full of Timon's meat, and enriched almost to 
bursting with Timon's costly presents, when he 
found the wind changed, and the fountain of 
so much bounty suddenly stopped, at first could 
hardly believe it ; but on its being confirmed, 
he affected great regret that he should not have 
it in his power to serve lord Timon, for unfor- 
tunately (which was a base falsehood) he had 
made a great purchase the day before, which 
had quite disfurnished him of the means at 
present ; the more beast he,he called himself, to 
put it out of his power to serve so good a friend ; 
and he counted it one of his greatest afflictions 
that his ability should fail him to pleasure such 
an honourable gentleman. 

Who can call any man friend that dips in 
the same dish with him ? just of this metal is 
every flatterer. In the recollection of every- 
body Timon had been a father to this Lucius, 
had kept up his credit with his purse ; Timon's 
money had gone to pay the wages of his servants, 
to pay the hire of his labourers who had sweat 



to build the fine houses which Lucius's pride 
had made necessary to him : yet, oh ! the mon- 
ster which man makes himself when he proves 
ungrateful ! this Lucius now denied to Timon 
a sum, which, in respect of what Timon had 
bestowed on him, was less than charitable men 
afford to beggars. 

Sempronius and every one of these mercenary 
lords to whom Timon applied in their turn, 
returned the same evasive answer or direct 
denial; even Ventidius, the redeemed and now 
rich Ventidius, refused to assist him with the 
loan of those five talents which Timon had not 
lent but generously given him in his distress. 

Now was Timon as much avoided in his 
poverty as he had been courted and resorted 
to in his riches. Now the same tongues which 
had been loudest in his praises, extolling him 
as bountiful, liberal, and open-handed, were 
not ashamed to censure that very bounty as 
folly, that liberality as profuseness, though it 
had shown itself folly in nothing so truly as in 
the selection of such unworthy creatures as 
themselves for its objects. Now was Timon's 
princely mansion forsaken, and become a 
shunned and hated place, a place for men to 
pass by, not a place as formerly, where every 
passenger must stop and taste of his wine and 
good cheer ; now, instead of being thronged 
with feasting and tumultuous guests, it was 
beset with impatient and clamorous creditors, 
usurers, extortioners, fierce and intolerable in 
their demands, pleading bonds, interests, mort- 
gages, — iron-hearted men that would take no 
denial nor putting off, that Timon's house was 
now his jail, which he could not pass, nor go in 
nor out for them ; one demanding his due of 
fifty talents, another bringing in a bill of five 
thousand crowns, which if he would tell out his 
blood by drops, and pay them so, he had not 
enough in his body to discharge, drop by drop. 

In this desperate and irremediable state (as 
it seemed) of his affairs, the eyes of all men 
were suddenly surprised at a new and incredi- 
ble lustre which the setting sun put forth. 
Once more lord Timon proclaimed a feast, to 
which he invited his accustomed guests, lords, 
ladies, and all that was great or fashionable in 
Athens. Lords Lucius and Lucullus came, 
Ventidius, Sempronius, and the rest. "Who 
more sorry now than these fawning wretches, 
when they found (as they thought) that lord 
Timon's poverty was all pretence, and had been 
only put on to make trial of their loves, to 
think that they should not have seen through 
the artifice at the time, and have had the cheap 
credit of obliging his lordship ? yet who more 
glad to find the fountain of that noble bounty, 
which they had thought dried up, still fresh 
and running ? They came dissembling, protest- 
ing, expressing deepest sorrow and shame, that 
when his lordship sent to them, they should 
have been so unfortunate as to want the pre- 
sent means to oblige so honourable a friend. 



78 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



But Timon begged them not to give such trifles 
a thought, for he had altogether forgotten it. 
And these base fawning lords, though they had 
denied him money in his adversity, yet could 
not refuse their presence at this new blaze of 
his returning prosperity. For the swallow fol- 
lows not summer more willingly than men of 
these dispositions follow the good fortunes of 
the great, nor more willingly leaves winter 
than these shrink from the first appearance of a 
reverse ; such summer-birds are men. But 
now with music and state the banquet of 
smoking dishes was served up ; and when the 
guests had a little done admiring whence the 
bankrupt Timon could find means to furnish so 
costly a feast, some doubting whether the scene 
which they saw was real, as scarce trusting their 
own eyes ; at a signal given, the dishes were un- 
covered, and Timon's drift appeared : instead of 
those varieties and far-fetched dainties which 
they expected, that Timon's epicurean table in 
past times had so liberally presented, now ap- 
peared under the covers of these dishes a prepara- 
tion more suitable to Timon's poverty, nothing 
but a little smoke and hike- warm water, fit feast 
for this knot of mouth friends, whose professions 
were indeed smoke, and their hearts luke- 
warm and slippery as the water, with which 
Timon welcomed his astonished guests, bidding 
them, " Uncover, dogs, and lap ; " and before 
they could recover their surprise, sprinkling it 
in their faces, that they might have enough, 
and throwing dishes and all after them, who 
now ran huddling out, lords, ladies, with their 
caps snatched up in haste, a splendid confusion, 
Timon pursuing them, still calling them what 
they were, " Smooth, smiling parasites, de- 
stroyers under the mask of courtesy, affable 
wolves, meek bears, fools of fortune, feast- 
friends, time-flies." They, crowding out to 
avoid him, left the house more willingly than 
they had entered it ; some losing their gowns 
and caps, and some their jewels in the hurry, 
all glad to escape out of the presence of such a 
mad lord, and from the ridicule of his mock 
banquet. 

This was the last feast which ever Timon 
made, and in it he took farewell of Athens 
and the society of men ; for after that, he 
betook himself to the woods, turning his back 
upon the hated city and upon all mankind, 
wishing the walls of that detestable city might 
sink, and the houses fall upon their owners, 
wishing all plagues which infest humanity, war, 
outrage, poverty, disease, might fasten upon its 
inhabitants, praying the just gods to confound 
all Athenians, both young and old, high and 
low ; so wishing, he went to the woods, where 
he said he should find the unkindest beast 
much kinder than mankind. He stripped him- 
self naked, that he might retain no fashion 
of a man, and dug a cave to live in, and lived 
solitary in the manner of a beast, eating the 
wild roots, and drinking water, flying from the 



face of his kind, and choosing rather to herd 
with wild beasts, as more harmless and friendly 
than man. 

What a change from lord Timon the rich, 
lord Timon the delight of mankind, to Timon 
the naked, Timon the man-hater ! Where 
were his flatterers now ? Where were his 
attendants and retinue ? Would the bleak 
air, that boisterous servitor, be his chamber- 
lain, to put his shirt on warm ? Would those 
stiff trees, that had outlived the eagle, turn 
young and airy pages to him, to skip on his 
errands when he bade them ? Would the 
cold brook, when it was iced with winter, ad- 
minister to him his warm broths and caudles 
when sick of an over-night's surfeit? Or 
would the creatures that lived in those wild 
woods come and lick his hand, and flatter 
him? 

Here on a day, when he was digging for 
roots, his poor sustenance, his spade struck 
against something heavy, which proved to be 
gold, a great heap which some miser had pro- 
bably buried in a time of alarm, thinking to 
have come again and taken it from" its prison, 
but died before the opportunity had arrived, 
without making any man privy to the conceal- 
ment ; so it lay, doing neither good nor harm, 
in the bowels of the earth its mother, as if it 
had never come from thence, till the accidental 
striking of Timon's spade against it once more 
brought it to light. 

Here was a mass of treasure which, if Timon 
had retained his old mind, was enough to have 
purchased him friends and flatterers again ; but 
Timon was sick of the false world, and the 
sight of gold was poisonous to his eyes ; and 
he would have restored it to the earth, but that, 
thinking of the infinite calamities which by 
means of gold happen to mankind, how the 
lucre of it causes robberies, oppression, injus- 
tice, briberies, violence and murder, among 
men, he had a pleasure in imagining (such a 
rooted hatred did he bear to his species) that 
out of this heap which in digging he had dis- 
covered, might arise some mischief to plague 
mankind. And some soldiers passing through 
the woods near to his cave at that instant, 
which proved to be a part of the troops of the 
Athenian captain, Alcibiades, who upon some 
disgust taken against the senators of Athens 
(the Athenians were ever noted to be a thank- 
less and ungrateful people, giving disgust to 
their generals and best friends), was marching 
at the head of the same triumphant army which 
he had formerly headed in their defence, to 
war against them : Timon, who liked their 
business well, bestowed upon their captain the 
gold to pay his soldiers, requiring no other ser- 
vice from him than that he should with his 
conquering army lay Athens level with, the 
ground, and burn, slay, kill all her inhabitants ; 
not sparing the old men for their white beards, 
for (he said) they were usurers, nor the young 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 



19 



children for their seeming innocent smiles, for 
those (he said) would live, if they grew up, to 
be traitors ; but to steel his eyes and ears 
against any sights or sounds that might awaken 
compassion ; and not to let the cries of virgins, 
babes, or mothers, hinder him from making one 
universal massacre of the city, but to confound 
them all in his conquest ; and when he had 
conquered, he prayed that the gods would con- 
found him also, the conqueror : so thoroughly 
did Timon hate Athens, Athenians, and all 
mankind. 

While he lived in this forlorn state, leading 
a life more brutal than human, he was sud- 
denly surprised one day with the appearance 
of a man standing in an admiring posture at 
the door of his cave. It was Flavius, the 
honest steward, whom love and zealous affec- 
tion to his master had led to seek him out at 
his wretched dwelling, and to offer his services! 
and the first sight of his master, the once noble 
Timon, in that abject condition, naked as he 
was born, living in the manner of a beast 
among beasts, looking like his own sad ruins 
and a monument of decay, so affected this good 
servant, that he stood speechless, wrapt up in 
horror, and confounded. And when he found 
utterance at last to his words, they were so 
choked with tears, that Timon had much ado 
to know him again, or to make out who it was 
that had come (so contrary to the experience 
he had had of mankind) to offer him service in 
extremity. And being in the form and shape 
of a man, he suspected him for a traitor, and 
his tears for false ; but the good servant by so 
many tokens confirmed the truth of his fidelity, 
and made it clear that nothing but love and 
zealous duty to his once dear master had 
brought him there, that Timon was forced to 
confess that the world contained one honest 
man ; yet, being in the shape and form of a 
man, he could not look upon his man's face 
without abhorrence, or hear words uttered 
from his man's lips without loathing ; and this 
singly honest man was forced to depart, because 
he was a man, and because, with a heart more 
gentle and compassionate than is usual to 
man, he bore man's detested form and outward 
feature. 

But greater visitants than a poor steward 
were about to interrupt the savage quiet of 
Timon's solitude. For now the day was come 
when the ungrateful lords of Athens sorely 
repented the injustice which they had done 
to the noble Timon. For Alcibiades, like an 
incensed wild boar, was raging at the walls of 
their city, and with his hot siege threatened to 
lay fair Athens in the dust. And now the 
memory of lord Timon's former prowess and 
military conduct came fresh into their forget- 
ful minds, for Timon had been their general in 
past times, and was a valiant and expert sol- 
dier, who alone of all the Athenians was deemed 
able to cope with a besieging army, such as 



then threatened them, or to drive back the 
furious approaches of Alcibiades. 

A deputation of the senators was chosen in 
this emergency to wait upon Timon. To him 
they come in their extremity, to whom, when 
he was in extremity, they had shown but small 
regard ; as if they presumed upon his gratitude 
whom they had disobliged, and had derived a 
claim to his courtesy from their own most dis- 
courteous and unpiteous treatment. 

Now they earnestly beseech him, implore 
him with tears, to return and save that city, 
from which their ingratitude had so lately 
driven him ; now they offer him riches, power, 
dignities, satisfaction for past injuries, and 
public honours and the public love ; their per- 
sons, lives, and fortunes, to be at his disposal, 
if he will but come back and save them. But 
Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater, was 
no longer lord Timon, the lord of bounty, the 
flower of valour, their defence in war, their 
ornament in peace. If Alcibiades killed his 
countrymen, Timon cared not. If he sacked 
fair Athens, and slew her old men and her 
infants, Timon would rejoice. So he told 
them ; and that there was not a knife in the 
unruly camp which he did not prize above the 
reverendest throat in Athens. 

This was all the answer he vouchsafed to 
the weeping, disappointed senators ; only at 
parting he bade them commend him to his 
countrymen, and tell them that to ease them 
of their griefs and anxieties, and to prevent 
the consequences of fierce Alcibiades' wrath, 
there was yet a way left, which he would teach 
them, for he had yet so much affection left for 
his dear countrymen as to be willing to do 
them a kindness before his death. These 
words a little revived the senators, who hoped 
that his kindness for their city was returning. 
Then Timon told them that he had a tree, 
which grew near his cave, which he should 
shortly have occasion to cut down, and he 
invited all his friends in Athens, high or low, 
of what degree soever, who wished to shun 
affliction, to come and take a taste of his tree 
before he cut it down ; meaning, that they might 
come and hang themselves on it, and escape 
affliction that way. 

And this was the last courtesy, of all his 
noble bounties, which Timon showed to man- 
kind, and this the last sight of him which his 
countrymen had ; for not many days after, a 
poor soldier, passing by the sea-beach, which 
was at a little distance from the woods which 
Timon frequented, found a tomb on the verge 
of the sea, with an inscription upon it, pur- 
porting that it was the grave of Timon the 
man-hater, who, " While he lived, did hate all 
living men, and dying, wished a plague might 
consume all caitiffs left ! " 

Whether he finished his life by violence, or 
whether mere distaste of life and theloathing he 
had for mankind brought Timon to his conclu- 



80 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



sion, was not clear, yet all men admired the 
fitness of his epitaph, and the consistency of 
his end ; dying, as he had lived, a hater of 
mankind : and some there were who fancied a 
conceit in the very choice which he made of the 



sea-beach for his place of burial, where the 
vast sea might weep for ever upon his grave, 
as in contempt of the transient and shallow 
tears of hypocritical and deceitful mankind. 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 



The two chief families in Verona were the 
rich Capulets and the Mountagues. There 
had been an old quarrel between these families, 
which was grown to such a height, and so 
deadly was the enmity between them, that it 
extended to the remotest kindred, to the fol- 
lowers and retainers of both sides, insomuch 
that a servant of the house of Mountague could 
not meet a servant of the house of Capulet, nor 
a Capulet encounter with a Mountague by 
chance, but fierce words and sometimes blood- 
shed ensued ; and frequent were the brawls 
from such accidental meetings, which disturbed 
the happy quiet of Verona's streets. 

Old lord Capulet made a great supper, to 
which many fair ladies and many noble guests 
were invited. All the admired beauties of 
Verona were present, and all comers were 
made welcome if they were not of the house 
of Mountague. At this feast of Capulet's, Rosa- 
line, beloved of Romeo, son to the old lord 
Mountague, was present ; and though it was 
dangerous for a Mountague to be seen in this 
assembly, yet Benvolio, a friend of Romeo, 
persuaded the young lord to go to this assembly 
in the disguise of a mask, that he might see 
his Rosaline, and seeing her compare her with 
some choice beauties of Verona, who (he said) 
would make him think his swan a crow. 
Romeo had small faith in Benvolio's words ; 
nevertheless, for the love of Rosaline, he was 
persuaded to go. For Romeo was a sincere 
and passionate lover, and one that lost his sleep 
for love, and fled society to be alone, thinking 
on Rosaline, who disdained him, and never 
requited his love with the least show of cour- 
tesy or affection ; and Benvolio wished to cure 
his friend of this love by showing him diversity 
of ladies and company. To this feast of 
Capulets, then, young Romeo with Benvolio 
and their friend Mercutio went masked. Old 
Capulet bid them welcome, and told them that 
ladies who had their toes unplagued with corns 
would dance with them. And the old man 
was light-hearted and merry, and said that he 
had worn a mask when he was young, and 
could have told a whispering tale in a fair 
lady's ear. And they fell to dancing, and 
Romeo was suddenly struck with the exceed- 
ing beauty of a lady who danced there, who 
seemed to him to teach the torches to burn 



bright, and her beauty to show by night like 
a rich jewel worn by a blackamoor : beauty 
too rich for use, too dear for earth ! like a 
snowy dove trooping with crows (he said), so 
richly did her beauty and perfections shine 
above the ladies her companions. "While he 
uttered these praises, he was overheard by 
Tybalt, a nephew of lord Capulet, who knew 
him by his voice to be Romeo. And this 
Tybalt, being of a fiery and passionate temper, 
could not endure that a Mountague should 
come under the cover of a mask, to fleer and 
scorn (as he said) at their solemnities. And 
he stormed and raged exceedingly, and would 
have struck young Romeo dead. But his 
uncle, the old lord Capulet, would not suffer 
him to do any injury at that time, both out of 
respect to his guests, and because Romeo had 
borne himself like a gentleman, and all tongues 
in Verona bragged of him to be a virtuous and 
well-governed youth. Tybalt, forced to be 
patient against his will, restrained himself, but 
swore that this vile Mountague should at an- 
other time dearly pay for his intrusion. 

The dancing being done, Romeo watched the 
place where the lady stood ; and, under favour 
of his masking habit, which might seem to 
excuse in part the liberty, he presumed in the 
gentlest manner to take her by her hand, calling 
it a shrine, which if he profaned by touching it, 
he was a blushing pilgrim, and would kiss it 
for atonement. " Good pilgrim," answered the 
lady, "your devotion shows by far too mannerly 
and too courtly : saints have hands, which 
pilgrims may touch, but kiss not." "Have 
not saints lips, and pilgrims too ? " said Romeo. 
" Ay," said the lady, " lips which they must use 
in prayer." "O then, my dear saint," said 
Romeo, " hear my prayer and grant it lest I 
despair." In such like allusions and loving 
conceits they were engaged, when the lady 
was called away to her mother. And Romeo 
inquiring who her mother was, discovered that 
the lady whose peerless beauty he was so much 
struck with, was young Juliet, daughter and 
heir to the lord Capulet, the great enemy of 
the Mountagues ; and that he had unknowingly 
engaged his heart to his foe. This troubled 
him, but it could not dissuade him from loving. 
As little rest had Juliet, when she found that 
the gentleman that she had been talking with 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 



81 



was Romeo and a Mountague, for she had heen 
suddenly smit with the same hasty and incon- 
siderate passion for Romeo, which he had con- 
ceived for her ; and a prodigious birth of love 
it seemed to her, that she must love her enemy, 
and that her affections should settle there, 
where family considerations should induce her 
chiefly to hate. 

It being midnight, Romeo with his com- 
panions departed ; but they soon missed him, 
for, unable to stay away from the house where 
he had left his heart, he leaped the wall of an 
orchard which was at the back of Juliet's 
house. Here he had not been long ruminating 
on his new love, when Juliet appeared above 
at a window, through which her exceeding 
beauty seemed to break like the light of the 
sun in the east ; and the moon, which shone 
in the orchard with a faint light, appeared to 
Romeo as if sick and pale with grief at the 
superior lustre of this new sun. And she 
leaning her cheek upon her hand, he passion- 
ately wished himself a glove upon that hand 
that he might touch her cheek. She, all this 
while thinking herself alone, fetched a deep 
sigh, and exclaimed, " Ah me ! " Romeo, en- 
raptured to hear her speak, said softly, and 
unheard by her, " speak again, bright angel, 
for such you appear, being over my head, like 
a winged messenger from heaven whom mor- 
tals fall back to gaze upon." She, unconscious 
of being overheard, and full of the new passion 
which that night's adventure had given birth 
to, called upon her lover by name (whom she 
supposed absent) : " O Romeo, Romeo ! " said 
she, " wherefore art thou Romeo ? Deny thy 
father, and refuse thy name, for my sake ; or 
if thou wilt not, be but my sworn love, and I 
no longer will be a Capulet." Romeo, having 
this encouragement, would fain have spoken, 
but he was desirous of hearing more ; and the 
lady continued her passionate discourse with 
herself (as she thought), still chiding Romeo 
for being Romeo and a Mountague, and wish- 
ing him some other name, or that he would 
put away that hated name, and for that name, 
which was no part of himself, he should take 
all herself. At this loving word Romeo could 
no longer refrain, but taking up the dialogue, 
as if her words had been addressed to him per- 
sonally, and not merely in fancy, he bade her 
call him Love, or by whatever other name she 
pleased, for he was no longer Romeo, if that 
name was displeasing to her. Juliet, alarmed 
to hear a man's voice in the garden, did not 
at first know who it was that by favour of the 
night and darkness had thus stumbled upon 
the discovery of her secret : but when he spoke 
again, though her ears had not yet drunk a 
hundred words of that tongue's uttering, yet 
so nice is a lover's hearing, that she immedi- 
ately knew him to be young Romeo ; and she 
expostulated with him on the danger to which 
he had exposed himself by climbing the orchard 



walls, for if any of her kinsmen should find 
him there, it would be death to him, being a 
Mountague. " Alack," said Romeo, " there is 
more peril in your eye than in twenty of their 
swords. Do you but look kind upon me, lady, 
and I am proof against their enmity. Better 
my life should be ended by their hate, than 
that hated life should be prolonged to live 
without your love." • " How came you into this 
place?" said Juliet, "and by whose direction?" 
" Love directed me," answered Romeo : u I am 
no pilot, yet wert thou as far apart from me 
as that vast shore which is washed with the 
farthest sea, I should adventure for such mer- 
chandise." A crimson blush came over Juliet's 
face, yet unseen by Romeo by reason of the 
night, when she reflected upon the discovery 
which she had made, yet not meaning to make 
it, of her love to Romeo. She would fain have 
recalled her words, but that was impossible : 
fain would she have stood upon form, and have 
kept her lover at a distance, as the custom of 
discreet ladies is ; to frown and be perverse, 
and give their suitors harsh denials at first ; to 
stand off, and affect a coyness or indifference, 
where they most love, that their lovers may 
not think them too lightly or too easily won — 
for the difficulty of attainment increases the 
value of the object. But there was no room 
in her case for denials, or puttings off, or any 
of the customary arts of delay and protracted 
courtship. Romeo had heard from her own 
tongue, when she did not dream that he was 
near her, a confession of her love. So with an 
honest frankness, which the novelty of her 
situation excused, she confirmed the truth of 
what he had before heard, and addressing him 
by the name of fair Mountague (love can 
sweeten a sour name), she begged him not to 
impute her easy yielding to levity or an unwor- 
thy mind, but that he must lay the fault of it 
(if it were a fault) upon the accident of the night 
whichhadso strangely discovered her thoughts. 
And she added, that though her behaviour to 
him might not be sufficiently prudent, measured 
by the custom of her sex, yet that she would 
prove more true than many whose prudence 
was dissembling, and their modesty artificial 
cunning. 

Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to 
witness, that nothing was further from his 
thoughts than to impute a shadow of dis- 
honour to such an honoured lady, when she 
stopped him, begging him not to swear; for 
although she joyed in him, yet she had no joy 
of that night's contract ; it was too rash, too 
unadvised, too sudden. But he being urgent 
with her to exchange a vow of love with him 
that night, she said that she already had given 
him hers before he requested it ; meaning 
when he overheard her confession ; but she 
would retract what she then bestowed, for the 
pleasure of giving it again, for her bounty was 
as infinite as the sea, and her love as deep. 



82 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



From this loving conference she was called 
away by her nurse, who slept with her, and 
thought it time for her to be in bed, for it was 
near to daybreak : but hastily returning, she 
said three or four words more to Romeo, the 
purport of which was, that if his love was 
indeed honourable, and his purpose marriage, 
she would send a messenger to him to-morrow, 
to appoint a time for their marriage, when 
she would lay all her fortunes at his feet, 
and follow him as her lord through the world. 
While they were settling this point, Juliet was 
repeatedly called for by her nurse, and went 
in and returned, and went and returned again, 
for she seemed as jealous of Romeo going from 
her as a young girl of her bird, which she will 
let hop a little from her hand, and pluck it 
back with a silken thread ; and Romeo was 
as loth to part as she ; for the sweetest music 
to lovers is the sound of each other's tongues 
at night. But at last they parted, wishing 
mutually sweet sleep and rest for that night. 

The day was breaking when they parted, and 
Romeo, who was too full of thoughts of his 
mistress and that blessed meeting to allow him 
to sleep, instead of going home, bent his course 
to a monastery hard by, to find friar Lawrence. 
The good friar was already up at his devotions, 
but seeing young Romeo abroad so early, he 
conjectured rightly that he had not been a-bed 
that night, but that some distemper of youth- 
ful affection had kept him waking. He was 
right in imputing the cause of Romeo's wake- 
fulness to love, but he made a wrong guess at 
the object, for he thought that his love for 
Rosaline had kept him waking. But when 
Romeo revealed his new passion for Juliet, 
and requested the assistance of the friar to 
marry them that day, the holy man lifted up 
his eyes and hands in a sort of wonder at the 
sudden change in Romeo's affections, for he 
had been privy to all Romeo's love for Rosaline, 
and his many complaints of her disdain ; and 
he said, that young men's love lay not truly in 
their hearts, but in their eyes. But Romeo 
replying that he himself had often chidden him 
for doting on Rosaline, who could not love him 
again, whereas Juliet both loved and was be- 
loved by him, the friar assented in some mea- 
sure to his reasons ; and thinking that a ma- 
trimonial alliance between young Juliet and 
Romeo might happily be the means of making 
up the long breach between the Capulets and 
the Mountagues, (which no one more lamented 
than this good friar, who was a friend to both 
the families, and had often interposed his me- 
diation to make up the quarrel without effect,) 
partly moved by policy, and partly by his fond- 
ness for young Romeo, to whom he could deny 
nothing, the old man consented to join their 
hands in marriage. 

Now was Romeo blest indeed, and Juliet, 
who knew his intent from a messenger which 
she had despatched according to promise, did 



not fail to be early at the cell of friar Law- 
rence, where their hands were joined in holy 
marriage ; the good friar praying the heavens 
to smile upon that act, and in the union of 
this young Mountague and young Capulet to 
bury the old strife and long dissensions of their 
families. 

The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened 
home, where she staid impatient for the 
coming of night, at which time Romeo pro- 
mised to come and meet her in the orchard, 
where they had met the night before ; and the 
time between seemed as tedious to her as the 
night before some great festival seems to an 
impatient child, that has got new finery which 
it may not put on till the morning. 

That same day about noon, Romeo's friends, 
Benvolio and Mercutio, walking through the 
streets of Verona, were met by a party of the 
Capulets with the impetuous Tybalt at their 
head. This was the same angry Tybalt who 
would have fought with Romeo at old lord 
Capulet's feast. He seeing Mercutio, accused 
him bluntly of associating with Romeo, a Moun- 
tague. Mercutio, who had as much fire and 
youthful blood in him as Tybalt, replied to this 
accusation with some sharpness ; and in spite 
of all Benvolio could say to moderate their 
wrath, a quarrel was beginning, when Romeo 
himself passing that way, the fierce Tybalt 
turned from Mercutio to Romeo, and gave him 
the disgraceful appellation of villain. Romeo 
wished to avoid a quarrel with Tybalt above 
all men, because he was the kinsman of Juliet, 
and much beloved by her ; besides, this young 
Mountague had never thoroughly entered into 
the family quarrel, being by nature wise and 
gentle ; and the name of a Capulet, which was 
his dear lady's name, was now rather a charm 
to allay resentment, than a watch-word to excite 
fury. So he tried to reason with Tybalt, whom 
he saluted mildly by the name of good Capulet, 
as if he, though a Mountague, had some secret 
pleasure in uttering that name : but Tybalt, 
who hated all Mountagues as he hated hell, 
would hear no reason, but drew his weapon ; 
and Mercutio, who knew not of Romeo's secret 
motive for desiring peace with Tybalt, but 
looked upon his present forbearance as a sort 
of calm dishonourable submission, with many 
disdainful words provoked Tybalt to the pro- 
secution of his first quarrel with him ; and 
Tybalt and Mercutio fought, till Mercutio fell, 
receiving his death's wound while Romeo and 
Benvolio were vainly endeavouring to part the 
combatants. Mercutio being dead, Romeo 
kept his temper no longer, but returned the 
scornful appellation of villain which Tybalt 
had given him ; and they fought till Tybalt 
was slain by Romeo. This deadly broil falling 
out in the midst of Yerona at noon-day, the 
news of it quickly brought a crowd of citizens 
to the spot, and among them the old lords 
Capulet and Mountague, with their wives ; and 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 



83 



soon after arrived the prince himself, who, 
being related to Mercutio, whom Tybalt had 
slain, and having had the peace of his govern- 
ment often disturbed by these brawls of Moun- 
tagues and Capulets, came determined to put 
the law in strictest force against those who 
should be found to be offenders. Benvolio, 
who had been eye-witness to the fray, was 
commanded by the prince to relate the origin 
of it, which he did, keeping as near the truth 
as he could without injury to Romeo, softening 
and excusing the part which his friends took 
in it. Lady Capulet, whose extreme grief for 
the loss of her kinsman Tybalt made her keep 
no bounds in her revenge, exhorted the prince 
to do strict justice upon his murderer, and to 
pay no attention to Benvolio's representation, 
who, being Romeo's friend and a Mountague, 
spoke partially. Thus she pleaded against her 
new son-in-law, but she knew not yet that he 
was her son-in-law, and Juliet's husband. On 
the other hand was to be seen lady Mountague 
pleading for her child's life, and arguing with 
some justice that Romeo had done nothing 
worthy of punishment in taking the life of 
Tybalt, which was already forfeited to the law 
by his having slain Mercutio. The prince, un- 
moved by the passionate exclamations of these 
women, on a careful examination of the facts 
pronounced his sentence ; and by that sentence 
Romeo was banished from Yerona. 

Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been 
but a few hours a bride, and now by this decree 
seemed everlastingly divorced ! When the 
tidings reached her, she at first gave way to 
rage against Romeo, who had slain her dear 
cousin : she called him a beautiful tyrant, a 
fiend angelical, a ravenous dove, a lamb with a 
wolf's nature, a serpent-heart hid with a flower- 
ing face, and other like contradictory names, 
which denoted the struggles in her mind 
between her love and her resentment : but in 
the end love got the mastery, and the tears 
which she shed for grief that Romeo had slain 
her cousin, turned to drops of joy that her hus- 
band lived whom Tybalt would have slain. 
Then came fresh tears, and they were alto- 
gether of grief for Romeo's banishment. That 
word was more terrible to her than the death 
of many Tybalts. 

Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in 
friar Lawrence's cell, where he was first made 
acquainted with the prince's sentence, which 
seemed to him far more terrible than death. 
To him it appeared there was no world out of 
Verona's walls, no living out of the sight of 
Juliet. Heaven was there where Juliet lived, 
and all beyond was purgatory, torture, hell. 
The good friar would have applied the conso- 
lation of philosophy to his griefs ; but this 
frantic young man would hear of none, but like 
a madman he tore his hair, and threw himself 
all along upon the ground, as he said, to take 
the measure of his grave. From this unseemly 



state he was roused by a message from his dear 
lady, which a little revived him ; and then the 
friar took the advantage to expostulate with 
him on the unmanly weakness which he had 
shown. He had slain Tybalt, but would he 
also slay himself, slay his dear lady who lived 
but in his life ? The noble form of man, he 
said, was but a shape of wax, when it wanted 
the courage which should keep it firm. The 
law had been lenient to him, that, instead of 
death which he had incurred, had pronounced 
by the prince's mouth only banishment. He 
had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would have slain 
him : there was a sort of happiness in that. 
Juliet was alive, and (beyond all hope) had 
become his dear wife; therein he was most 
happy. All these blessings, as the friar made 
them out to be, did Romeo put from him, like a 
sullen misbehaved wench. And the friar bade 
him beware, for such as despaired (he said) 
died miserable. Then when Romeo was a 
little calmed, he counselled him that he should 
go that night and secretly take his leave of 
Juliet, and thence proceed straightways to 
Mantua, at which place he should sojourn, till 
the friar found a fit occasion to publish his 
marriage, which might be a joyful means of 
reconciling their families ; and then he did not 
doubt but the prince would be moved to par- 
don him, and he would return with twenty 
times more joy than he went forth with grief. 
Romeo was convinced by these wise counsels 
of the friar, and took his leave to go and seek 
his lady, purposing to stay with her that night, 
and by day-break pursue his journey alone to 
Mantua ; to which place the good friar pro- 
mised to send him letters from time to time, 
acquainting him with the state of affairs at 
home. 

That night Romeo passed with his dear wife, 
gaining secret admission to her chamber from 
the orchard in which he had heard her confes- 
sion of love the night before. That had been 
a night of unmixed joy and rapture ; but the 
pleasures of this night, and the delight which 
these lovers took in each other's society, were 
sadly allayed with the prospect of parting, and 
the fatal adventures of the past day. The un- 
welcome day-break seemed to come too soon, 
and when Juliet heard the morning-song of 
the lark, she would fain have persuaded her- 
self that it was the nightingale, which sings by 
night ; but it was too truly the lark which 
sung, and a discordant and unpleasing note it 
seemed to her ; and the streaks of day in the 
east too certainly pointed out that it was time 
for these lovers to part. Romeo took his leave 
of his dear wife with a heavy heart, promising 
to write to her from Mantua every hour in the 
day ; and when he had descended from her 
chamber- window, as he stood below her on the 
ground, in that sad foreboding state of mind in 
which she was, he appeared to her eyes as one 
dead in the bottom of a tomb. Romeo's mind 



84 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



misgave him in like manner ; but now he was 
forced hastily to depart, for it was death for 
him to be found within the walls of Verona 
after day-break. 

This was but the beginning of the tragedy of 
this pair of star-crossed lovers. Romeo had 
not been gone many days, before the old lord 
Capulet proposed a match for Juliet. The 
husband he had chosen for her, not dreaming 
that she was married already, was count Paris, 
a gallant, young, and noble gentleman, no un- 
worthy suitor to the young Juliet, if she had 
never seen Romeo. 

The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity 
at her father's offer. She pleaded her youth, 
unsuitable to marriage, the recent death of 
Tybalt, which had left her spirits too weak to 
meet a husband with any face of joy, and how 
indecorous it would show for the family of the 
Capulets to be celebrating a nuptial-feast, when 
his funeral solemnities were hardly over : she 
pleaded every reason against the match, but 
the true one, namely, that she was married 
already. But lord Capulet was deaf to all her 
excuses, and in a peremptory manner ordered 
her to get ready, for by the following Thursday 
she should be married to Paris : and having 
found her a husband rich, young, and noble, 
such as the proudest maid in Verona might 
joyfully accept, he could not bear that out of 
an affected coyness, as he construed her denial, 
she should oppose obstacles to her own good 
fortune. 

In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly 
friar, always her counsellor in distress ; and he 
asking her if she had resolution to undertake a 
desperate remedy, and she answering that she 
would go into the grave alive, rather than 
marry Paris, her own dear husband living, he 
directed her to go home, and appear merry, 
and give her consent to marry Paris, according 
to her father's desire, and on the next night, 
which was the night before the marriage, to 
drink off the contents of a phial which he then 
gave her, the effect of which would be, that for 
two-and-forty hours after drinking it she should 
appear cold and lifeless ; that when the bride- 
groom came to fetch her in the morning, he 
would find her to appearance dead ; that then 
she would be borne, as the manner in that 
country was, uncovered, on a bier, to be buried 
in the family vault ; that if she could put off 
womanish fear, and consent to this terrible 
trial, in forty-two hours after swallowing the 
liquid (such was its certain operation) she 
would be sure to awake, as from a dream : and 
before she should awake, he would let her 
husband know their drift, and he should come 
in the night, and bear her thence to Mantua. 
Love, and the dread of marrying Paris, gave 
young Juliet strength to undertake this horrible 
adventure ; and she took the phial of the friar, 
promising to observe his directions. 

Going from the monastery, she met the young 



count Paris, and, modestly dissembling, pro- 
mised to become his bride. This was joyful 
news to the lord Capulet and his wife. It 
seemed to put youth into the old man : and 
Juliet, who had displeased him exceedingly by 
her refusal of the count, was his darling again, 
now she promised to be obedient. All things 
in the house were in a bustle against the ap- 
proaching nuptials. No cost was spared to 
prepare such festival rejoicings, as Verona had 
never before witnessed. 

On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off 
the potion. She had many misgivings, lest the 
friar, to avoid the blame which might be im- 
puted to him for marrying her to Romeo, had 
given her poison ; but then he was always known 
for a holy man : then lest she should awake 
before the time that Romeo was to come for 
her ; whether the terror of the place, a vault 
full of dead Capulets' bones, and where Tybalt, 
all bloody, lay festering in his shroud, would 
not be enough to drive her distracted : again 
she thought of all the stories she had heard 
of spirits haunting the places where their 
bodies were bestowed. But then her love for 
Romeo, and her aversion for Paris, returned, 
and she desperately swallowed the draught, 
and became insensible. 

When young Paris came early in the morn- 
ing with music, to awaken his bride, instead of 
a living Juliet, her chamber presented the 
dreary spectacle of a lifeless corse. What 
death to his hopes ! What confusion then 
reigned through the whole house ! Poor Paris 
lamenting his bride, whom most detestable 
death had beguiled him of, had divorced from 
him even before their hands were joined. But 
still more piteous it was to hear the mournings 
of the old lord and lady Capulet, who having 
but this one, one poor loving child to rejoice 
and solace in, cruel death had snatched her 
from their sight, just as these careful parents 
were on the point of seeing her advanced (as 
they thought) by a promising and advantageous 
match. Now all things that were ordained for 
the festival were turned from their properties 
to do the office of a black funeral. The wed- 
ding cheer served for a sad burial feast, the 
bridal hymns were changed to sullen dirges, 
the sprightly instruments to melancholy bells, 
and the flowers that should have been strewed 
in the bride's path now served but to strew 
her corse. Now, instead of a priest to marry her, 
a priest was needed to bury her ; and she was 
borne to church indeed, not to augment the 
cheerful hopes of the living, but to swell the 
dreary numbers of the dead. 

Bad news, which always travels faster than 
good, now brought the dismal story of his 
Juliet's death to Romeo, at Mantua, before the 
messenger could arrive, who was sent from 
friar Lawrence to apprise him that these were 
mock funerals only, and but the shadow and 
representation of death, and that his dear 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 



85 



lady lay in the tomb but for a short while, 
expecting when Romeo should come to release 
her from that dreary mansion. Just before, 
Romeo had been unusually joyful and light- 
hearted. He had dreamed in the night that he 
was dead (a strange dream, that gave a dead 
man leave to think), and that his lady came 
and found him dead, and breathed such life 
with kisses in his lips, that he revived, and 
was an emperor ! And now that a messenger 
came from Verona, he thought surely it was 
to confirm some good news which his dream 
had presaged. But when the contrary to this 
flattering vision appeared, and that it was his 
lady who was dead in truth, whom he could 
not revive by any kisses, he ordered horses to 
be got ready, for he determined that night to 
visit Verona, and to see his lady in her tomb. 
And as mischief is swift to enter into the 
thoughts of desperate men, he called to mind 
a poor apothecary, whose shop in Mantua he 
had lately passed, and from the beggarly ap- 
pearance of the man, who seemed famished, 
and the wretched show in his shop of empty 
boxes ranged on dirty shelves, and other tokens 
of extreme wretchedness, he had said at the 
time (perhaps having some misgivings that his 
own disastrous life might haply meet with a 
conclusion so desperate), " If a man were to 
need poison, which by the law of Mantua it is 
death to sell, here lives a poor wretch who 
would sell it him." These words of his now 
came into his mind, and he sought out the 
apothecary, who, after some pretended scruples, 
Romeo offering him gold which his poverty 
could not resist, sold him a poison, which, if 
he swallowed, he told him, if he had the 
strength of twenty men, would quickly des- 
patch him. 

With this poison he set out for Verona, to 
have a sight of his dear lady in her tomb, 
meaning, when he had satisfied his sight, to 
swallow the poison, and be buried by her side. 
He reached Verona at midnight, and found 
the churchyard, in the midst of which was 
situated the ancient tomb of the Capulets. 
He had provided a light, and a spade, and 
wrenching iron, and was proceeding to break 
open the monument, when he was interrupted 
by a voice, which by the name of vile Mountague 
bade him desist from his unlawful business. 
It was the young count Paris, who had come 
to the tomb of Juliet at that unseasonable time 
of night, to strew flowers, and to weep over the 
grave of her that should have been his bride. 
He knew not what an interest Romeo had in 
the dead, but knowing him to be a Mountague, 
and (as he supposed) a sworn foe to all the 
Capulets, he judged that he was come by night 
to do some villanous shame to the dead bodies ; 
therefore in an angry tone he bade him desist ; 
and as a criminal, condemned by the laws 
of Verona to die if he were found within 
the walls of the city, he would have appre- 



hended him. Romeo urged Paris to leave him, 
and warned him, by the fate of Tybalt who lay 
buried there, not to provoke his anger, or draw 
down another sin upon his head, by forcing 
him to kill him. But the count in scorn refused 
his warning, and laid hands on him as a felon, 
which Romeo resisting, they fought, and Paris 
fell. When Romeo, by the help of a light, 
came to see who it was that he had slain, that 
it was Paris, who (he learned in his way from 
Mantua) should have married Juliet, he took 
the dead youth by the hand, as one whom mis- 
fortune had made a companion, and said that 
he would bury him in a triumphal grave, mean- 
ing Juliet's grave, which he now opened : and 
there lay his lady, as one whom Death had no 
power upon, to change a feature or complexion 
in her matchless beauty, or as if Death were 
amorous, and the lean abhorred monster kept 
her there for his delight ; for she lay yet fresh 
and blooming, as she had fallen to sleep when 
she swallowed that benumbing potion : and 
near her lay Tybalt in his bloody shroud, whom 
Romeo seeing, begged pardon of his lifeless 
corse, and for Juliet's sake called him cousin, 
and said that he was about to do him a favour 
by putting his enemy to death. Here Romeo 
took his last leave of his lady's lips, kissing 
them ; and here he shook the burden of his cross 
stars from his weary body, swallowing that 
poison which the apothecary had sold him, 
whose operation was fatal and real, not like 
that dissembling potion which Juliet had 
swallowed, the effect of which was now nearly 
expiring, and she about to awake to complain 
that Romeo had not kept his time, or that he 
had come too soon. 

For now the hour was arrived at which the 
friar had promised that she should awake ; 
and he, having learned that his letters which 
he had sent to Mantua, by some unlucky 
detention of the messenger, had never reached 
Romeo, came himself, provided with a pick-axe 
and lantern, to deliver the lady from her con- 
finement ; but he was surprised to find a light 
already burning in the Capulets' monument, 
and to see swords and blood near it, and 
Romeo and Paris lying breathless by the 
monument. 

Before he could entertain a conjecture, to 
imagine how these fatal accidents had fallen 
out, Juliet awoke out of her trance, and seeing 
the friar near her, she remembered the place 
where she was, and the occasion of her being 
there, and asked for Romeo ; but the friar, 
hearing a noise, bade her come out of that 
place of death, and of unnatural sleep, for a 
greater power than they could contradict had 
thwarted their intents ; and being frightened by 
the noise of people coming, he fled ; but when 
Juliet saw the cup closed in her true love's 
hands, she guessed that poison had been the 
cause of his end, and she would have swallowed 
the dregs if any had been left ; and she kissed 



86 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



his still warm lips to try if any poison yet did 
hang upon them : then hearing a nearer noise 
of people coming, she quickly unsheathed a 
dagger which she wore, and stabbing herself, 
died by her true Romeo's side. 

The watch by this time had come up to the 
place. A page belonging to count Paris, who 
had witnessed the fight between his master and 
Romeo, had given the alarm, which had spread 
among the citizens, who went up and down 
the streets of Verona, confusedly, exclaiming 
— a Paris ! a Romeo ! a Juliet ! as the rumour 
had imperfectly reached them, till the uproar 
brought lord Mountague and lord Capulet out of 
their beds, with the prince, to inquire into the 
causes of the disturbance. The friar had been 
apprehended by some of the watch, coming 
from the churchyard, trembling, sighing, and 
weeping, in a suspicious manner. A great 
multitude being assembled at the Capulets' 
monument, the friar was commanded by the 
prince to deliver what he knew of these strange 
and disastrous accidents. 

And there, in the presence of the old lords 
Mountague and Capulet, he faithfully related 
the story of their children's fatal love, the part 
he took in promoting their marriage, in the 
hope in that union to end the long quarrels 
between their families ; how Romeo, there 
dead, was husband to Juliet, and Juliet, there 
dead, was Romeo's faithful wife ; how before 
he could find a fit opportunity to divulge their 
marriage, another match was projected for 
Juliet, who, to avoid the crime of a second 
marriage, swallowed the sleeping draught (as 
he advised), and all thought her dead : how 
meantime he wrote to Romeo, to come and take 
her thence when the force of the potion should 
cease, and by what unfortunate miscarriage of 
the messenger the letters never reached 
Romeo : further than this the friar could not 
follow the story, nor knew more than that, 
coming himself to deliver Juliet from that 
place of death, he found the count Paris and 
Romeo slain . The remainder of the transac- 
tions was supplied by the narration of the page 
who had seen Paris and Romeo fight, and by 



the servant who came with Romeo from 
Verona, to whom this faithful lover had given 
letters to be delivered to his father in the 
event of his death, which made good the friar's 
words, confessing his marriage with Juliet, im- 
ploring the forgiveness of his parents, acknow- 
ledging the buying of the poison of the poor 
apothecary, and his intent in coming to the 
monument, to die and lie with Juliet. All 
these circumstances agreed together to clear 
the friar from any hand he could be supposed 
to have in these complicated slaughters, fur- 
ther than as the unintended consequences of 
his own well meant, yet too artificial and subtle 
contrivances. 

And the prince, turning to these old lords, 
Mountague and Capulet, rebuked them for 
their brutal and irrational enmities, and showed 
them what a scourge Heaven had laid upon 
such offences, that it had found means even 
through the love of their children to punish 
their unnatural hate. And these old rivals, no 
longer enemies, agreed to bury their long strife 
in their children's graves ; and lord Capulet 
requested lord Mountague to give him his hand, 
calling him by the name of brother, as if in 
acknowledgment of the union of their families 
by the marriage of the young Capulet and 
Mountague ; and saying that lord Mountague's 
hand (in token of reconcilement) was all he 
demanded for his daughter's jointure : but 
lord Mountague said he would give him more, 
for he would raise her statue of pure gold, that 
while Verona kept its name no figure should 
be so esteemed for its richness and workman- 
ship as that of the true and faithful Juliet. 
And lord Capulet in return said that he would 
raise another statue to Romeo. So did these 
poor old lords, when it was too late, strive to 
outgo each other in mutual courtesies : while 
so deadly had been their rage and enmity in 
past times, that nothing but the fearful over- 
throw of their children (poor sacrifices to their 
quarrels and dissensions) could remove the 
rooted hates and jealousies of the noble 
families. 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 



87 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 



Gertrude, queen of Denmark, becoming a 
widow by the sudden death of king Hamlet, 
in less than two months after his death married 
his brother Claudius, which was noted by all 
people at the time for a strange act of indis- 
cretion, or unfeelingness, or worse : for this 
Claudius did no ways resemble her late husband 
in the qualities of his person or his mind, but 
was as contemptible in outward appearance, as 
he was base and unworthy in disposition ; and 
suspicions did not fail to arise in the minds of 
some, that he had privately made away with 
his brother, the late king, with the view of 
marrying his widow, and ascending the throne 
of Denmark, to the exclusion of young Hamlet, 
the son of the buried king, and lawful successor 
to the throne. 

But upon no one did this unadvised action of 
the queen make such impression as upon this 
young prince, who loved and venerated the 
memory of his dead father almost to idolatry, 
and being of a nice sense of honour, and a 
most exquisite practiser of propriety himself, 
did sorely take to heart this unworthy conduct 
of his mother Gertrude : insomuch that, 
between grief for his father's death and shame 
for his mother's marriage, this young prince 
was overclouded with a deep melancholy, and 
lost all his mirth and all his good looks ; all 
his customary pleasure in books forsook him ; 
his princely exercises and sports, proper to his 
youth, were no longer acceptable ; he grew 
weary of the world, which seemed to him an 
unweeded garden, where all the wholesome 
flowers were choked up, and nothing but weeds 
could thrive. Not that the prospect of exclu- 
sion from the throne, his lawful inheritance, 
weighed so much upon his spirits, though that 
to a young and high-minded prince was a bitter 
wound and a sore indignity ! but what so galled 
him, and took away all his cheerful spirits, 
was, that his mother had shown herself so for- 
getful to his father's memory : and such a 
father ! who had been to her so loving and so 
gentle a husband ! and then she always ap- 
peared as loving and obedient a wife to him, 
and would hang upon him as if her affection 
grew to him : and now within two months, or 
as it seemed to young Hamlet less than two 
months, she had married again, married his 
uncle, her dead husband's brother, in itself a 
highly improper and unlawful marriage from 
the nearness of relationship, but made much 
more so by the indecent haste with which 
it was concluded, and the unkingly character 



of the man whom she had chosen to be the 
partner of her throne and bed. This it was, 
which more than the loss of ten kingdoms, 
dashed the spirits, and brought a cloud over 
the mind, of this honourable young prince. 

In vain was all that his mother Gertrude or 
the king could do or contrive to divert him ; 
he still appeared in court in a suit of deep 
black, as mourning for the king his father's 
death, which mode of dress he had never laid 
aside, not even in compliment to his mother 
upon the day she was married, nor could he be 
brought to join in any of the festivities or 
rejoicings of that (as appeared to him) dis- 
graceful day. 

What mostly troubled him was an uncer- 
tainty about the manner of his father's death. 
It was given out by Claudius, that a serpent 
had stung him : but young Hamlet had shrewd 
suspicions that Claudius himself was the 
serpent ; in plain English, that he had mur- 
dered him for his crown, and that the serpent 
who stung his father did now sit on the throne. 

How far he was right in this conjecture, and 
what he ought to think of his mother, how far 
she was privy to this murder, and whether by 
her consent or knowledge, or without, it came 
to pass, were the doubts which continually 
harassed and distracted him. 

A rumour had reached the ear of young 
Hamlet, that an apparition, exactly resembling 
the dead king his father, had been seen by the 
soldiers upon watch, on the platform before the 
palace at midnight, for two or three nights 
successively. The figure came constantly clad 
in the same suit of armour, from head to foot, 
which the dead king was known to have worn : 
and they who saw it (Hamlet's bosom-friend 
Horatio was one) agreed in their testimony as 
to the time and manner of its appearance ; that 
it came just as the clock struck twelve ; that 
it looked pale, with a face more of sorrow than 
of anger ; that its beard was grisly, and the 
colour a sable silvered, as they had seen it in his 
life-time ; that it made no answer when they 
spoke to it, yet once they thought it lifted up 
its head, and addressed itself to motion as if it 
were about to speak ; but in that moment the 
morning cock crew, and it shrunk in haste 
away, and vanished out of their sight. 

The young prince, strangely amazed at their 
relation, which was too consistent and agreeing 
with itself to disbelieve, concluded that it was 
his father's ghost which they had seen, and 
determined to take his watch with the soldiers 



88 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



that night, that he might have a chance of 
seeing it : for he reasoned with himself, that 
such an appearance did not come for nothing, 
but that the ghost had something to impart ; 
and though it had been silent hitherto, yet it 
would speak to him. And he waited with 
impatience for the coming of night. 

When night came, he took his stand with 
Horatio, and Marcellus, one of the guard, upon 
the platform, where this apparition was accus- 
tomed to walk ; and it being a cold night, and 
the air unusually raw and nipping, Hamlet and 
Horatio and their companion fell into some 
talk about the coldness of the night, which was 
suddenly broken off by Horatio announcing 
that the ghost was coming. 

At the sight of his father's spirit, Hamlet 
was struck with a sudden surprise and fear. 
He at first called upon the angels and hea- 
venly ministers to defend them, for he knew 
not whether it were a good spirit or bad ; 
whether it came for good or evil ; but he 
gradually assumed more courage ; and his 
father (as it seemed to him) looked upon him 
so piteously, and as it were desiring to have 
conversation with him, and did in all respects 
appear so like himself as he was when he 
lived, that Hamlet could not help addressing 
him ; he called him by his name, Hamlet, 
King, Father ! and conjured him that he would 
tell the reason why he had left his grave, 
where they had seen him quietly bestowed, to 
come again and visit the earth and the moon- 
light : and besought him that he would let 
them know if there was anything which they 
could do to give peace to his spirit. And the 
ghost beckoned to Hamlet, that he should go 
with him to some more removed place, where 
they might be alone : and Horatio and Mar- 
cellus would have dissuaded the young prince 
from following it, for they feared lest it should 
be some evil spirit, who would tempt him to 
the neighbouring sea, or to the top of some 
dreadful cliff, and there put on some horrible 
shape which might deprive the prince of his 
reason. But their counsels and entreaties 
could not alter Hamlet's determination, who 
cared too little about life to fear the losing of it : 
and as to his soul, he said, what could the 
spirit do to that, being a thing immortal as 
itself? and he felt as hardy as a lion, and 
bursting from them, who did all they could to 
hold him, he followed whithersoever the spirit 
led him. 

And when they were alone together, the 
spirit broke silence, and told him that he was 
the ghost of Hamlet, his father, who had been 
cruelly murdered : and he told the manner of 
it ; that it was done by his own brother Clau- 
dius, Hamlet's uncle, as Hamlet had already 
but too much suspected, for the hope of suc- 
ceeding to his bed and crown. That as he was 
sleeping in his garden, his custom always in the 
afternoon, this treasonous brother stole upon 



him in his sleep, and poured the juice of poison- 
ous henbane into his ears, which has such an 
antipathy to the life of man, that swift as quick- 
silver it courses through all the veins of the 
body, baking up the blood, and spreading a 
crust-like leprosy all over the skin : thus sleep- 
ing, by a brother's hand he was cut off at once 
from his crown, his queen, and his life ; and he 
adjured Hamlet, if he did ever his dear father 
love, that he would revenge this foul murder. 
And the ghost lamented to his son, that his 
mother should so fall off from virtue, as to 
prove false to the wedded love of her first hus- 
band, and to marry his murderer : but he 
cautioned Hamlet, howsoever he proceeded in 
his revenge against his wicked uncle, by no 
means to act any violence against the person of 
his mother, but to leave her to heaven, and to 
the stings and thorns of conscience. And 
Hamlet promised to observe the ghost's direc- 
tion in all things, and the ghost vanished. 

And when Hamlet was left alone, he took up 
a solemn resolution, that all he had in his 
memory, all that he had ever learned by books 
or observation, should be instantly forgotten 
by him, and nothing live in his brain but the 
memory of what the ghost had told him, and en- 
joined him to do. And Hamlet related the par- 
ticulars of the conversation which had passed 
to none but his dear friend Horatio ; and he 
enjoined both to him and Marcellus the strict- 
est secrecy as to what they had seen that night. 

The terror which the sight of the ghost had 
left upon the senses of Hamlet, he being weak 
and dispirited before, almost unhinged his 
mind, and drove him beside his reason. And 
he, fearing that it would continue to have this 
effect, which might subject him to observation, 
and set his uncle upon his guard if he sus- 
pected that he was meditating anything against 
him, or that Hamlet really knew more of bis 
father's death than he professed, took up a 
strange resolution from that time to counterfeit 
as if he were really and truly mad ; thinking 
that he would be less an object of suspicion 
when his uncle should believe him incapable 
of any serious project, and that his real pertur- 
bation of mind would be best covered and pass 
concealed under a disguise of pretended lunacy. 

From this time Hamlet affected a certain 
wildness and strangeness in his apparel, his 
speech, and behaviour, and did so excellently 
counterfeit the madman, that the king and 
queen were both deceived, and not thinking 
his grief for his father's death a sufficient cause 
to produce such a distemper, for they knew not 
of the appearance of the ghost, they concluded 
that his malady was love, and they thought 
they had found out the object. 

Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way 
which has been related, he had dearly loved a 
fair maid called Ophelia, the daughter of Polo- 
nius, the king's chief counsellor in affairs of 
state. He had sent her letters and rings, and 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 



89 



made many tenders of his affection to her, and 
importuned her with love in honourable fashion : 
and she had given belief to his vows and im- 
portunities. But the melancholy which he fell 
into latterly had made him neglect her, and 
from the time he conceived the project of 
counterfeiting madness, he affected to treat 
her with unkindness, and a sort of rudeness ; 
but she, good lady, rather than reproach him 
with being false to her, persuaded herself that 
it was nothing but the disease in his mind, and 
no settled unkindness, which had made him less 
observant of her than formerly ; and she com- 
pared the faculties of his once noble mind and 
excellent understanding, impaired as they were 
with the deep melancholy that oppressed him, 
to sweet bells which in themselves are capable 
of most exquisite music, but when jangled out 
of tune, or rudely handled, produce only a harsh 
and unpl easing sound. 

Though the rough business which Hamlet 
had in hand, the revenging of his father's death 
upon his murderer, did not suit with the play- 
ful state of courtship, or admit of the society of 
so idle a passion as love now seemed to him, 
yet it could not hinder but that soft thoughts 
of his Ophelia would come between ; and in one 
of these moments, when he thought that his 
treatment of this gentle lady had been un- 
reasonably harsh, he wrote her a letter full of 
wild starts of passion, and in extravagant 
terms, such as agreed with his supposed mad- 
ness, but mixed with some gentle touches of 
affection, which could not but show to this 
honoured lady that a deep love for her yet lay 
at the bottom of his heart. He bade her to 
doubt the stars were fire, and to doubt that the 
sun did move, to doubt truth to be a liar, but 
never to doubt that he loved ; with more of 
such extravagant phrases. This letter Ophelia 
dutifully showed to her father, and the old man 
thought himself bound to communicate it to 
the king and queen, who from that time sup- 
posed that the true cause of Hamlet's madness 
was love. And the queen wished that the good 
beauties of Ophelia might be the happy cause 
of his wildness, for so she hoped that her 
virtues might happily restore him to his ac- 
customed way again, to both their honours. 

But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she 
supposed, or than could be so cured. His 
father's ghost, which he had seen, still haunted 
his imagination, and the sacred injunction to 
revenge his murder gave him no rest till it was 
accomplished. Every hour of delay seemed to 
him a sin, and a violation of his father's com- 
mands. Yet how to compass the death of the 
king, surrounded as he constantly was with his 
guards, was no easy matter. Or if it had been, 
the presence of the queen, Hamlet's mother, 
who was generally with the king, was a re- 
straint upon his purpose, which he could not 
break through. Besides, the very circumstance 
that the usurper was his mother's husband 



filled him with some remorse, and still blunted 
the edge of his purpose. The mere act of put- 
ting a fellow-creature to death was in itself 
odious and terrible to a disposition naturally 
so gentle as Hamlet's was. His very melan- 
choly, and the dejection of spirits he had so 
long been in, produced an irresoluteness and 
wavering of purpose, which kept him from 
proceeding to extremities. Moreover, he could 
not help having some scruples upon his mind, 
whether the spirit which he had seen was in- 
deed his father, or whether it might not be the 
devil, who he had heard has power to take any 
form he pleases, and who might have assumed 
his father's shape only to take advantage 
of his weakness and his melancholy, to drive 
him to the doing of so desperate an act as 
murder. And he determined that he would 
have more certain grounds to go upon than 
a vision, or apparition, which might be a 
delusion. 

While he was in this irresolute mind, there 
came to the court certain players, in whom 
Hamlet formerly used to take delight, and 
particularly to hear one of them speak a tra- 
gical speech, describing the death of old Priam, 
king of Troy, with the grief of Hecuba, his 
queen. Hamlet welcomed his old friends, the 
players, and remembering how that speech had 
formerly given him pleasure, requested the 
player to repeat it : which he did in so lively a 
manner, setting forth the cruel murder of the 
feeble old king, with the destruction of his 
people, and city by fire, and the mad grief of 
the old queen, running barefoot up and down 
the palace, with a poor clout upon that head 
where a crown had been, and with nothing but 
a blanket upon her loins, snatched up in haste, 
where she had worn a royal robe : that not 
only it drew tears from all that stood by, who 
thought they saw the real scene, so lively was 
it represented, but even the player himself 
delivered it with a broken voice and real tears. 
This put Hamlet upon thinking, if that player 
could so work himself up to passion by a mere 
fictitious speech, to weep for one that he had 
never seen, for Hecuba, that had been dead so 
many hundred years, how dull was he, who 
having a real motive and cue for passion, a 
real king and a dear father murdered, was 
yet so little moved, that his revenge all this 
while had seemed to have slept in dull and 
muddy forgetfulness ! And while he meditated 
on actors and acting, and the powerful effects 
which a good play, represented to the life, has 
upon the spectator, he remembered the instance 
of some murderer, who seeing a murder on the 
stage, was by the mere force of the scene and 
resemblance of circumstances so affected, that 
on the spot he confessed the crime which he 
had committed. And he determined that these 
players should play something like the murder 
of his father before his uncle, and he would 
watch narrowly what effect it might have upon 



90 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



him, and from his looks he would be able to 
gather with more certainty if he were the 
murderer or not. To this effect he ordered a 
play to be prepared, to the representation of 
which he invited the king and queen. 

The story of the play was of a murder done 
in Vienna upon a duke. The duke's name was 
Gonzago, his wife Baptista. The play showed 
how one Lucianus, a near relation to the duke, 
poisoned him in his garden for his estate, and 
how the murderer in a short time after got the 
love of Gonzago's wife. 

At the representation of this play the king, 
who did not know the trap which was laid for 
him, was present, with his queen and the whole 
court : Hamlet sitting attentively near him to 
observe his looks. The play began with a con- 
versation between Gonzago and his wife, in 
which the lady made many protestations of 
love, and of never marrying a second husband, 
if she should outlive Gonzago ; wishing she 
might be accursed if she ever took a second 
husband, and adding that no women ever did 
so but those wicked women who kill their first 
husbands. Hamlet observed the king, his 
uncle, change colour at this expression, and 
that it was asJpad as wormwood both to him 
and to the queen. But when Lucianus, accord- 
ing to the story, came to poison Gonzago 
sleeping in the garden, the strong resemblance 
which it bore to his own wicked act upon the 
late king, his brother, whom he had poisoned in 
his garden, so struck upon the conscience of this 
usurper, that he was unable to sit out the rest 
of the play, but on a sudden calling for lights 
to his chamber, and affecting or partly feeling 
a sudden sickness, he abruptly left the theatre. 
The king being departed, the play was given 
over. Now Hamlet had seen enough to be 
satisfied that the words of the ghost were true, 
and no illusion ; and in a fit of gaiety, like that 
which comes over a man who suddenly has 
some great doubt or scruple resolved, he swore 
to Horatio that he would take the ghost's word 
for a thousand pounds. But before he could 
make up his resolution as to what measures of 
revenge he shoiild take, now he was certainly 
informed that his uncle was his father's mur- 
derer, he was sent for by the queen, his mother, 
to a private conference in her closet. 

It was by desire of the king that the queen 
sent for Hamlet, that she might signify to her 
son how much his late behaviour had displeased 
them both ; and the king, wishing to know all 
that passed at that conference, and thinking 
that the too partial report of a mother might let 
slip some part of Hamlet's words, which it might 
much import the king to know, Polonius, the old 
counsellor of state, was ordered to plant him- 
self behind the hangings in the queen's closet ; 
where he might unseen hear all that passed. 
This artifice was particularly adapted to the 
disposition of Polonius, who was a man grown 
old in crooked maxims and policies of state, 



and delighted to get at the knowledge of mat- 
ters in an indirect and cunning way. 

Hamlet being come to his mother, she began 
to tax him in the roundest way with his actions 
and behaviour, and she told him that he had 
given great offence to Ms father, meaning the 
king, his uncle, whom, because he had married 
her, she called Hamlet's father. Hamlet, sorely 
indignant that she should give so dear and 
honoured a name as father seemed to him, to 
a wretch who was indeed no better than the 
murderer of his true father, with some sharpness 
replied, " Mother you have much offended my 
father? The queen said that was but an idle 
answer. " As good as the question deserved," 
said Hamlet. The queen asked him if he had 
forgotten who it was he was speaking to ? 
" Alas ! " replied Hamlet, " I wish I could for- 
get. You are the queen, your husband's 
brother's wife : and you are my mother : I 
wish you were not what you are." " Nay, 
then," said the queen, " if you show me so little 
respect, I will set those to you that can speak," 
and was going to send the king or Polonius to 
him. But Hamlet would not let her go, now 
he had her alone, till he had tried if his words 
could not bring her to some sense of her wicked 
life ; and, taking her by the wrist, he held her 
fast, and made her sit down. She, affrighted 
at his earnest manner, and fearful lest in his 
lunacy he should do her a mischief, cried out : 
and a voice was heard from behind the hang- 
ings, " Help, help the queen ! " which Hamlet 
hearing, and verily thinking that it was the 
king himself there concealed, he drew his 
sword, and stabbed at the place where the voice 
came from, as he would have stabbed a rat 
that ran there, till the voice ceasing, he con- 
cluded the person to be dead. But when he 
dragged forth the body, it was not the king, 
but Polonius, the old officious counsellor, that 
had planted himself as a spy behind the hang- 
ings. " O me ! " exclaimed the queen, " what 
a rash and bloody deed have you done !" A 
bloody deed, mother," replied Hamlet, "but 
not so bad as yours, who killed a king, and 
married his brother." Hamlet had gone too far 
to leave off here. He was now in the humour 
to speak plainly to his mother, and he pursued 
it. And though the faults of parents are to be 
tenderly treated by their children, yet in the 
case of great crimes the son may have leave to 
speak even to his own mother with some harsh- 
ness, so as that harshness is meant for her 
good, and to turn her from her wicked ways ? 
and not done for the purpose of upbraiding. 
And now this virtuous prince did in moving 
terms represent to the queen the heinousness 
of her offence, in being so forgetful of the dead 
king, his father, as in so short a space of time 
to marry with his brother and reputed murderer : 
such an act as, after the vows which she had 
sworn to her first husband, was enough to make 
all vows of women suspected, and all virtue to 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 



<)1 



be accounted hypocrisy, wedding contracts to 
be less than gamesters' oaths, and religion to 
be a mockery and a mere form of words. He 
said she had done such a deed, that the heavens 
blushed at it, and the earth was sick of her 
because of it. And he showed her two pictures, 
the one of the late king, her first husband, and 
the other of the present king, her second hus- 
band, and he bade her mark the difference : 
what a grace was on the brow of his father, 
how like a god he looked ! the curls of Apollo, 
the forehead of Jupiter, the eye of Mars, and a 
posture like to Mercury newly alighted on some 
heaven-kissing hill ! this man, he said, had been 
her husband. And then he showed her whom 
she had got in his stead : how like a blight or 
a mildew he looked, for so he had blasted his 
wholesome brother. And the queen was sore 
ashamed that he should so turn her eyes inward 
upon her soul, which she now saw so black and 
deformed. And he asked her how she could 
continue to live with this man and be a wife 
to him, who had murdered her first husband, 
and got the crown by as false means as a thief 

■ And just as he spoke, the ghost of his 

father, such as he was in his life-time, and such 
as he had lately seen it, entered the room, and 
Hamlet, in great terror, asked what it would 
have ; and the ghost said that it came to remind 
him of the revenge he had promised, which 
Hamlet seemed to have forgot : and the ghost 
bade him speak to his mother, for the grief and 
terror she was in would else kill her. It then 
vanished, and was seen by none but Hamlet, 
neither could he by pointing to where it stood, 
or by any description, make his mother per- 
ceive it ; who was terribly frighted all this 
while to hear him conversing, as it seemed to 
her, with nothing : and she imputed it to the 
disorder of his mind. But Hamlet begged her 
not to flatter her wicked soul in such a manner 
as to think that it was his madness, and not 
her own offences, which had brought his father's 
spirit again on the earth. And he bade her 
feel his pulse, how temperately it beat, not like 
a madman's. And he begged of her with tears 
to confess herself to heaven for what was past, 
and for the future to avoid the company of the 
king, and be no more as a wife to him : and 
when she should show herself a mother to him, 
by respecting his father's memory, he would 
ask a blessing of her as a son. And she pro- 
mising to observe his directions, the conference 
ended. 

And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider 
who it was that in his unfortunate rashness 
he had killed : and when he came to see 
that it was Polonius, the father of the lady 
Ophelia, whom he so dearly loved, he drew 
apart the dead body, and, his spirits being 
now a little quieter, he wept for what he had 
done. 

This unfortunate death of Polonius gave the 
king a pretence for sending Hamlet out of the 



kingdom. He would willingly have put him 
to death, fearing him as dangerous ; but he 
dreaded the people, who loved Hamlet ; and 
the queen, who, with all her faults, doated upon 
the prince, her son. So this subtle king, under 
pretence of providing for Hamlet's safety, that 
he might not be called to account for Polonius' 
death, caused him to be conveyed on board a 
ship bound for England, under the care of two 
courtiers, by whom he despatched letters to the 
English court, which at that time was in sub- 
jection and paid tribute to Denmark, requiring 
for special reasons there pretended, that Ham- 
let should be put to death as soon as he landed 
on English ground. Hamlet, suspecting some 
treachery, in the night-time secretly got at the 
letters, and skilfully erasing his own name, he 
in the stead of it put in the names of those two 
courtiers, who had the charge of him to be put 
to death : then sealing up the letters, he put 
them into their place again. Soon after the ship 
was attacked by pirates, and a sea-fight com- 
menced ; in the course of which Hamlet, 
desirous to show his valour, with sword in hand 
singly boarded the enemy's vessel ; while his 
own ship, in a cowardly manner, bore away, 
and leaving him to his fate, the two courtiers 
made the best of their way to England, charged 
with those letters the sense of which Hamlet 
had altered to their own deserved destruction. 

The pirates, who had the prince in their 
power, showed themselves gentle enemies ; and 
knowing whom they had got prisoner, in the 
hope that the prince might do them a good 
turn at court in recompence for any favour 
they might show him, they set Hamlet on shore 
at the nearest port in Denmark. From that 
place Hamlet wrote to the king, acquainting 
him with the strange chance which had brought 
him back to his own country, and saying that 
on the next day he should present himself 
before his majesty. When he got home, a sad 
spectacle offered itself the first thing to his 
eyes. 

This was the funeral of the young and beau- 
tiful Ophelia, his once dear mistress. The 
wits of this young lady had begun to turn ever 
since her poor father's death. That he should 
die a violent death, and by the hands of the 
prince whom she loved, so affected this tender 
young maid, that in a little time she grew per- 
fectly distracted, and would go about giving 
flowers away to the ladies of the court, and 
saying that they were for her father's burial, 
singing songs about love and about death, and 
sometimes such as had no meaning at all, as 
if she had no memory of what happened to 
her. There was a willow which grew slanting 
over a brook, and reflected its leaves in the 
stream. To this brook she came one day when 
she was unwatched, with garlands she had 
been making, mixed up of daisies and nettles, 
flowers and weeds together, and clambering 
up to hang her garland upon the boughs of 



92 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



the willow, a bough broke and precipitated 
this fair young maid, garland and all that she 
had gathered, into the water, where her clothes 
bore her up for awhile, during which she chanted 
scraps of old tunes, like one insensible to her 
own distress, or as if she were a creature natural 
to that element : but long it was not before 
her garments, heavy with the wet, pulled her 
in from her melodious singing to a muddy and 
miserable death. It was the funeral of this 
fair maid which her brother Laertes was cele- 
brating, the king and queen and whole court 
being present, when Hamlet arrived. He knew 
not what all this show imported, but stood on 
one side, not inclining to interrupt the cere- 
mony. He saw the flowers strewed upon her 
grave, as the custom was in maiden burials, 
which the queen herself threw in ; and as she 
threw them, she said, " Sweets to the sweet ! 
I thought to have decked thy bride-bed, sweet 
maid, not to have strewed thy grave. Thou 
shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife." And 
he heard her brother wish that violets might 
spring from her grave : and he saw him leap 
into the grave all frantic with grief, and bid 
the attendants pile mountains of earth upon 
him, that he might be buried with her. And 
Hamlet's love for this fair maid came back to 
him, and he could not bear that a brother 
should show so much transport of grief; for 
he thought that he loved Ophelia better than 
forty thousand brothers. Then discovering 
himself, he leaped into the grave where 
Laertes was, all as frantic or more frantic 
than he, and Laertes, knowing him to be 
Hamlet, who had been the cause of his father's 
and his sister's death, grappled him by the 
throat as an enemy, till the attendants parted 
them : and Hamlet, after the funeral, excused 
his hasty act in throwing himself into the grave 
as if to brave Laertes ; but he said he could 
not bear that any one should seem to outgo 
him in grief for the death of the fair Ophelia. 
And for the time these two noble youths 
seemed reconciled. 

But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for 
the death of his father and Ophelia, the king, 
Hamlet's wicked uncle, contrived destruction 
for Hamlet. He set on Laertes, under cover 
of peace and reconciliation, to challenge Hamlet 
to a friendly trial of skill at fencing, which 
Hamlet accepting, a day was appointed to try 
the match. At this match all the court was 
present, and Laertes, by direction of the king, 
prepared a poisoned weapon. Upon this match 
great wagers were laid by the courtiers, as both 
Hamlet and Laertes were known to excel at 
this sword-play ; and Hamlet taking up the foils 
chose one, not at all suspecting the treachery 
of Laertes, or being careful to examine Laertes' 
weapon, who, instead of a foil or blunted sword, 
which the laws of fencing require, made use of 



one with a point, and poisoned. At first Laertes 
did but play with Hamlet, and suffered him to 
grain some advantages, which the dissembling 
king magnified and extolled beyond measure, 
drinking to Hamlet's success, and wagering 
rich bets upon the issue : but after a few 
passes, Laertes, growing warm, made a deadly 
thrust at Hamlet with his poisoned weapon, 
and gave him a mortal blow. Hamlet incensed, 
but not knowing the whole of the treachery, 
in the scuffle exchanged his own innocent 
weapon for Laertes' deadly one, and with a 
thrust of Laertes' own sword repaid Laertes 
home, who was thus justly caught in his own 
treachery. In this instant the queen shrieked out 
that she was poisoned. She had inadvertently 
drunk out of a bowl which the king had pre- 
pared for Hamlet, in case that being warm in 
fencing he should call for drink : into this the 
treacherous king had infused a deadly poison, 
to make sure of Hamlet, if Laertes had failed. 
He had forgotten to warn the queen of the 
bowl, which she drank of, and immediately 
died, exclaiming with her last breath that she 
was poisoned. Hamlet suspecting some trea- 
chery, ordered the doors to be shut, while he 
sought it out. Laertes told him to seek no 
further, for he was the traitor ; and feeling his 
life go away with the wound which Hamlet 
had given him, he made confession of the 
treachery he had used, and how he had fallen 
a victim to it : and he told Hamlet of the 
envenomed point, and said that Hamlet had 
not half an hour to live, for no medicine could 
cure him ; and begging forgiveness of Hamlet 
he died, with his last words accusing the king 
of being the contriver of the mischief. When 
Hamlet saw his end draw near, there being 
yet some venom left upon the sword, he sud- 
denly turned upon his false uncle, and thrus-t 
the point of it to his heart, fulfilling the pro- 
mise which he had made to his father's spirit, 
whose injunction was now accomplished, and 
his foul murder revenged upon the murderer. 
Then Hamlet, feeling his breath fail, and life 
departing, turned to his dear friend Horatio, 
who had been spectator of this fatal tragedy ; 
and with his dying breath requested him that 
he would live to tell his story to the world (for 
Horatio had made a motion as if he would slay 
himself to accompany the prince in death,) 
and Horatio promised that he would make a 
true report, as one that was privy to all the 
circumstances. And, thus satisfied, the noble 
heart of Hamlet cracked : and Horatio and 
the bystanders with many tears commended 
the spirit of their sweet prince to the guardian- 
ship of angels. For Hamlet was a loving and 
a gentle prince, and greatly beloved for his 
many noble and prince-like qualities ; and if 
he had lived, would no doubt have proved a 
most royal and complete king to Denmark. 



OTHELLO. 



93 



OTHELLO, 



Brabantio, tlie rich senator of Venice, had 
a fair daughter, the gentle Desdemona. She 
was sought to by divers suitors, both on account 
of her many virtuous qualities and for her rich 
expectations. But among the suitors of her 
own clime and complexion she saw none whom 
she could affect : for this noble lady, who 
regarded the mind more than the features of 
men, with a singularity rather to be admired 
than imitated, had chosen for the object of her 
affections a Moor, a black, whom her father 
loved, and often invited to his house. 

Neither is Desdemona to be altogether con- 
demned for the unsuitableness of the person 
whom she selected for her lover. Bating that 
Othello was black, the noble Moor wanted 
nothing which might recommend him to the 
affections of the greatest lady. He was a 
soldier, and a brave one ; and by his conduct 
in bloody wars against the Turks, had risen 
to the rank of general in the Venetian service, 
and was esteemed and trusted by the state. 

He had been a traveller, and Desdemona (as 
is the manner of ladies) loved to hear him tell 
the story of his adventures, which he would 
run through from his earliest recollection ; the 
battles, sieges, and encounters, which he had 
passed through ; the perils he had been exposed 
to by land and by water ; his hair-breadth 
escapes, when he had entered a breach, or 
marched up to the mouth of a cannon ; and 
how he had been taken prisoner by the insolent 
enemy, and sold to slavery : how he demeaned 
himself in that state, and how he escaped : all 
these accounts, added to the narration of the 
strange things he had seen in foreign countries, 
the vast wildernesses and romantic caverns, 
the quarries, the rocks and mountains, whose 
heads are in the clouds ; of the savage nations, 
the cannibals whp are men-eaters, and a race 
of people in Africa whose heads do grow 
beneath their shoulders : these travellers' 
stories would so enchain the attention of 
Desdemona, that if she were called off at any 
time by household affairs, she would despatch 
with all haste that business, and return, and 
with a greedy ear devour Othello's discourse. 
And once he took advantage of a pliant hour, 
and drew from her a prayer, that he would tell 
her the whole story of his life at large, of which 
she had heard so much, but only by parts : to 
which he consented, and beguiled her of many 
a tear, when he spoke of some distressful 
stroke which his youth had suffered. 



His story being done, she gave him for his 
pains a world of sighs : she swore a pretty 
oath, that it was all passing strange, and piti- 
ful, wondrous pitiful : she wished (she said) 
she had not heard it, yet she wished that 
heaven had made her such a man : and then 
she thanked him, and told him, if he had a 
friend who loved her, he had only to teach 
him how to tell his story, and that would woo 
her. Upon this hint, delivered not with more 
frankness than modesty, accompanied with a 
certain bewitching prettiness, and blushes, 
which Othello could not but understand, he 
spoke more openly of his love, and in this 
golden opportunity gained the consent of the 
generous lady Desdemona privately to marry 
him. 

Neither Othello's colour nor his fortune was 
such that it could be hoped Brabantio would 
accept him for a son-in-law. He had left his 
daughter free ; but he did expect that, as the 
manner of noble Venetian ladies was, she 
would choose ere long a husband of senatorial 
rank or expectations : but in this he was 
deceived ; Desdemona loved the Moor, though 
he was black, and devoted her heart and for- 
tunes to his valiant parts and qualities : so 
was her heart subdued to an implicit devotion 
to the man she had selected for a husband, 
that his very colour, which to all but this dis- 
cerning lady would have proved an insur- 
mountable objection, was by her esteemed 
above all the white skins and clear complexions 
of the young Venetian nobility, her suitors. 

Their marriage, which, though privately 
carried, could not long be kept a secret, came 
to the ears of the old man, Brabantio, who 
appeared in a solemn council of the senate, as 
an accuser of the Moor Othello, who by spells 
and witchcraft (he maintained) had seduced 
the affections of the fair Desdemona to marry 
him without the consent of her father, and 
against the obligations of hospitality. 

At this juncture of time it happened that 
the state of Venice had immediate need of the 
services of Othello, news having arrived that 
the Turks with mighty preparation had fitted 
out a fleet, which was bending its course to the 
island of Cyprus, with intent to regain that 
strong post from the Venetians, who then held 
it : in this emergency the state turned its eyes 
upon Othello, who alone was deemed adequate 
to conduct the defence of Cyprus against the 
Turks. So that Othello, now summoned before 



04 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



the senate, stood in their presence at once as a 
candidate for a great state-employment, and as 
a culprit, charged with offences § which by the 
laws of Venice were made capital. 

The age and senatorial character of old Bra- 
bantio commanded a most patient hearing from 
that grave assembly ; but the incensed father con- 
ducted his accusation with so much intemper- 
ance, producing likelihoods and allegations for 
proofs, that, when Othello was called upon for 
his defence, he had only to relate a plain tale of 
the course of his love ; which he did with such 
an artless eloquence, recounting the whole 
story of his wooing, as we have related it 
above, and delivered his speech with so noble 
a plainness (the evidence of truth), that the 
duke, who sat as chief judge, could not help 
confessing, that a tale so told would have won 
his daughter too : and the spells and conjura- 
tions which Othello had used in his courtship, 
plainly appeared to have been no more than 
the honest arts of men in love ; and the only 
witchcraft which he had used, the faculty of 
telling a soft tale to win a lady's ear. 

This statement of Othello was confirmed by 
the testimony of the lady Desdemona herself, 
who appeared in court, and, professing a duty 
to her father for life and education, challenged 
leave of him to profess a yet higher duty to 
her lord and husband, even so much as her 
mother had shown in preferring him (Bra- 
bantio) above her father. 

The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, 
called the Moor to him with many expressions 
of sorrow, and as an act of necessity, bestowed 
upon him his daughter, whom, if he had been 
free to withhold her, (he told him) he would 
with all his heart have kept from him ; adding, 
that he was glad at soul that he had no other 
child, for this behaviour of Desdemona would 
have taught him to be a tyrant, and hang clogs 
on them for her desertion. 

This difficulty being got over, Othello, to 
whom custom had rendered the hardships of 
a military life as natural as food and rest are 
to other men, readily undertook the manage- 
ment of the wars in Cyprus : and Desdemona, 
preferring the honour of her lord (though with 
danger) before the indulgence of those idle 
delights in which newly married people usually 
waste their time, cheerfully consented to his 
going. 

No sooner were Othello and his lady landed 
in Cyprus, than news arrived, that a desperate 
tempest had dispersed the Turkish fleet, and 
thus the island was secure from any immediate 
apprehension of an attack. But the war, 
which Othello was to suffer, was now begin- 
ning ; and the enemies, which malice stirred 
up against his innocent lady, proved in their 
nature more deadly than strangers or infidels. 

Among all the general's friends no one pos- 
sessed the confidence of Othello more entirely 
than Cassio. Michael Cassio was a young 



soldier, a Florentine, gay, amorous, and of 
pleasing address, — favourite qualities with 
women ; he was handsome, and eloquent, and 
exactly such a person as might alarm the 
jealousy of a man advanced in years (as Othello 
in some measure was), who had married a 
young and beautiful wife ; but Othello was as 
free from jealousy as he was noble, and as inca- 
pable of suspecting, as of doing a base action. 
He had employed this Cassio in his love affair 
with Desdemona, and Cassio had been a sort 
of go-between in his suit : for Othello, fearing 
that himself had not those soft parts of con- 
versation which please ladies, and finding these 
qualities in his friend, would often depute 
Cassio to go (as he phrased it) a-courting for 
him : such innocent simplicity being rather an 
honour than a blemish to the character of the 
valiant Moor. So that no wonder, if next to 
Othello himself (but at far distance as beseems a 
virtuous wife) the gentle Desdemona loved and 
trusted Cassio. Nor had the marriage of this 
couple made any difference in their behaviour 
to Michael Cassio. He frequented their house, 
and his free and rattling talk wasnounpleasing 
variety to Othello, who was himself of a more 
serious temper : for such tempers are observed 
often to delight in their contraries, as a relief 
from the oppressive excess of their own ; and 
Desdemona and Cassio would talk and laugh 
together, as in the days when he went a-courting 
for his friend. 

Othello had lately promoted Cassio to be his 
lieutenant, a place of trust, and nearest to the 
general's person. This promotion gave great 
offence to Iago, an older officer, who thought 
he had a better claim than Cassio, and would 
often ridicule Cassio, as a fellow fit only for 
the company of ladies, and one that knew no 
more of the art of war, or how to set an army 
in array for battle, than a girl. Iago hated 
Cassio, and he hated Othello, as well for 
favouring Cassio, as for an unjust suspicion, 
which he had lightly taken up against Othello, 
that the Moor was too fond of Iago's wife 
Emilia. From these imaginary provocations the 
plotting mind of Iago conceived a horrid scheme 
of revenge, which should involve both Cassio, 
the Moor, and Desdemona, in one common ruin. 

Iago was artful, and had studied human 
nature deeply, and he knew that of all the 
torments which afflict the mind of man (and 
far beyond bodily torture), the pains of jealousy 
were the most intolerable, and had the sorest 
sting. If he could succeed in making Othello 
jealous of Cassio, he thought it would be an 
exquisite plot of revenge, and might end in 
the death of Cassio or Othello, or both ; he 
cared not. 

The arrival of the general and his lady in 
Cyprus, meeting with the news of the disper- 
sion of the enemy's fleet, made a sort of 
holiday in the island. Everybody gave them- 
selves up to feasting and making merry. 



OTHELLO. 



95 



Wine flowed in abundance, and cups went 
round to the health of the black Othello, and 
his lady, the fair Desdemona. 

Cassio had the direction of the guard that 
night, with a charge from Othello to keep the 
soldiers from excess in drinking, that no brawl 
might arise, to fright the inhabitants or disgust 
them with the new-landed forces. That night 
Iago began his deep-laid plans of mischief; 
under colour of loyalty and love to the general 
he enticed Cassio to make rather too free with 
the bottle (a great fault in an officer upon 
guard). Cassio for a time resisted, but he could 
not long hold out against the honest freedom 
which Iago knew how to put on, but kept 
swallowing glass after glass (as Iago still plied 
him with drink and encouraging songs), and 
Cassio's tongue ran over in praise of the lady 
Desdemona, whom he again and again toasted, 
affirming that she was a most exquisite lady : 
until at last the enemy which he put into his 
mouth stole away his brains ; and upon some 
provocation given him by a fellow whom Iago 
had set on, swords were drawn, and Montano, 
a worthy officer, who interfered to appease the 
dispute, was wounded in the scuffle. The riot 
now began to be general, and Iago, who had 
set on foot the mischief, was foremost in 
spreading the alarm: causing the castle-bell to 
be rung (as if some dangerous mutiny instead 
of a slight drunken quarrel had arisen) : the 
alarm-bell ringing, awakened Othello, who, 
dressing in a hurry, and coming to the scene 
of action, questioned Cassio of the cause. 
Cassio was now come to himself, the effect of the 
wine having a little gone off, but was too much 
ashamed to reply ; and Iago, pretending a great 
reluctance to accuse Cassio, but as it were 
forced into it by Othello, who insisted to know 
the truth, gave an account of the whole matter 
(leaving out his own share in it, which Cassio 
was too far gone to remember,) in such a man- 
ner as, while he seemed to make Cassio's offence 
less, did indeed make it appear greater than it 
was. The result was, that Othello, who was a 
strict observer of discipline, was compelled 
to take away Cassio's place of lieutenant from 
him. 

Thus did Iago's first artifice succeed com- 
pletely ; he had now undermined his hated 
rival, and thrust him out of his place : but a 
further use was hereafter to be made of the 
adventure of this disastrous night. 

Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely 
sobered, now lamented to his seeming friend 
Iago that he should have been such a fool as 
to transform himself into a beast. He was 
undone, for how could he ask the general for 
his place again ! he would tell him he was 
a drunkard. He despised himself. Iago, 
affecting to make light of it, said, that he, or 
any man living, might be drunk upon occasion; 
it remained now to make the best of a bad 
bargain ; the general's wife was now the general, 



and could do anything with Othello ; that he 
were best to apply to the lady Desdemona to 
mediate for him with her lord ; that she was of 
a frank, obliging disposition, and would readily 
undertake a good office of this sort, and set 
Cassio right again in the general's favour ; and 
then this crack in their love would be made 
stronger than ever. A good advice of Iago, 
if it had not been given for wicked purposes, 
which will after appear. 

Cassio did as Iago advised him, and made 
application to the lady Desdemona, who was 
easy to be won over in any honest suit ; and 
she promised Cassio that she would be his 
solicitor with her lord, and rather die than 
give up his cause. This she immediately set 
about in so earnest and pretty a manner, that 
Othello, who was mortally offended with Cassio, 
could not put her off. When he pleaded delay, 
and that it was too soon to pardon such an 
offender, she would not be beat back, but in- 
sisted that it should be the next night, or the 
morning after, or the next morning to that at 
farthest. Then she showed how penitent and 
humbled poor Cassio was, and that his offence 
did not deserve so sharp a check. And when 
Othello still hung back, " What ! my lord," 
said she, " that I should have so much to do 
to plead for Cassio, Michael Cassio, that came 
a-courting for you, and oftentimes, when I have 
spoken in dispraise of you, has taken your 
part ! I count this but a little thing to ask of 
you. When I mean to try your love indeed, 
I shall ask a weighty matter." Othello could 
deny nothing to such a pleader, and only re- 
questing that Desdemona would leave the time 
to him, promised to receive Michael Cassio 
again into favour. 

It happened that Othello and Iago had 
entered into the room where Desdemona was, 
just as Cassio, who had been imploring her in- 
tercession, was departing at the opposite door; 
and Iago, who was full of art, said in a low 
voice, as if to himself, " 1 like not that." 
Othello took no great notice of what he said ; 
indeed the conference which immediately took 
place with his lady put it out of his head ; but 
he remembered it afterwards. For when 
Desdemona was gone, Iago, as if for mere 
satisfaction of his thought, questioned Othello 
whether Michael Cassio, when Othello was 
courting his lady, knew of his love. To this 
the general answering in the affirmative, and 
adding, that he had gone between them very 
often during the courtship, Iago knitted his 
brow, as if he had got fresh light of some ter- 
rible matter, and cried, " Indeed ! " This 
brought into Othello's mind the words which 
Iago had let fall upon entering the room and 
seeing Cassio with Desdemona ; and he began to 
think there was some meaning in all this : for 
he deemed Iago to be a just man, and full of love 
and honesty, and what in a false knave would 
be tricks, in him seemed to be the natural 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



workings of an honest mind, big with some- 
thing too great for utterance : and Othello 
prayed Iago to speak what he knew, and to 
give his worst thoughts word. "And what," 
said Iago, " if some thoughts very vile should 
have intruded into my breast, as where is the 
palace into which foul things do not enter ? " 
Then Iago went on to say, what a pity it were 
if any trouble should arise to Othello out of 
his imperfect observations ; that it would not 
be for Othello's peace to know his thoughts ; 
that people's good names were not to be taken 
away for slight suspicions ; and when Othello's 
curiosity was raised almost to distraction with 
these hints and scattered words, Iago, as if in 
earnest care for Othello's peace of mind, 
besought him to beware of jealousy : with such 
art did this villain raise suspicions in the un- 
guarded Othello, by the very caution which 
he pretended to give him against suspicion. 
" I know," said Othello, " that my wife is fair, 
loves company and feasting, is free of speech, 
sings, plays, and dances well : but where vir- 
tue is, these qualities are virtuous. I must 
have proof before I think her dishonest." 
Then Iago, as if glad that Othello was slow to 
believe ill of his lady, frankly declared that 
he had no proof, but begged Othello to observe 
her behaviour well, when Cassio was by ; not 
to be jealous, nor too secure neither, for that 
he (Iago) knew the dispositions of the Italian 
ladies, his country-women, better than Othello 
could do ; and that in Venice the wives let 
heaven see many pranks they dared not show 
their husbands. Then he artfully insinuated, 
that Desdemona deceived her father in marry- 
ing with Othello, and carried it so closely that 
the poor old man thought that witchcraft had 
been used. Othello was much moved with 
this argument, which brought the matter home 
to him, for if she had deceived her father, why 
might she not deceive her husband ? 

Iago begged pardon for having moved him ; 
but Othello, assuming an indifference, while 
he was really shaken with inward grief at 
Iago's words, begged him to go on, which Iago 
did with many apologies, as if unwilling to 
produce anything against Cassio, whom he 
called his friend : he then came strongly to the 
point, and reminded Othello how Desdemona 
had refused many suitable matches of her own 
clime and complexion, and had married him, a 
Moor, which showed unnatural in her, and 
proved her to have a headstrong will : and 
when her better judgment returned, how pro- 
bable it was she should fall upon comparing 
Othello with the fine forms and clear white 
complexions of the young Italians, her coun- 
trymen. He concluded with advising Othello 
to put off his reconcilement with Cassio a little 
longer, and in the meanwhile to note with 
what earnestness Desdemona should intercede 
in his behalf ; for that much would be seen in 
that. So mischievously did this artful villain 



lay his plots to turn the gentle qualities of this 
innocent lady into her destruction, and make 
a net for her out of her own goodness to entrap 
her : first setting Cassio on to entreat her 
mediation, and then out of that very mediation, 
contriving stratagems for her ruin. 

The conference ended with Iago's begging 
Othello to account his wife innocent, until he 
had more decisive proof ; and Othello promised 
to be patient ; but from that moment the 
deceived Othello never tasted content of mind. 
Poppy, nor the juice of mandragora, ror all the 
sleeping potions in the world, could ever again 
restore to him that sweet rest, which he had 
enjoyed but yesterday. His occupation sickened 
upon him. He no longer took delight in arms. 
His heart, that used to be roused at the sight 
of troops, and banners, and battle-array, and 
would stir and leap at the sound of a drum, or 
a trumpet, or a neighing war-horse, seemed to 
have lost all that pride and ambition, which 
are a soldier's virtue ; and his military ardour 
and all his old joys forsook him. Sometimes 
he thought his wife honest, and at times he 
thought her not so ; sometimes he thought 
Iago just, and at times he thought him not so ; 
then he would wish that he had never known 
of it, he was not the worse for her loving 
Cassio so long as he knew it not. Torn in pieces 
with these distracting thoughts, he once laid 
hold on Iago's throat, and demanded proof of 
Desdemona's guilt, or threatened instant death 
for his having belied her. Iago, feigning indig- 
nation that his honesty should be taken for a 
vice, asked Othello if he had not sometimes 
seen a handkerchief spotted with strawberries 
in his wife's hand. Othello answered that he 
had given her such a one, and that it was his 
first gift. " That same handkerchief," said 
Iago, " did I see Michael Cassio this day wipe 
his face with." " If it be as you say," said 
Othello, " I will not rest till a wide revenge 
swallow them up : and first, for a token of 
your fidelity, I expect that Cassio shall be put 
to death within three days ; and for that fair 
devil [meaning his lady], I will withdraw and 
devise some swift means of death for her." 

Trifles, light as air, are to the jealous proofs 
as strong as holy writ. A handkerchief of his 
wife's seen in Cassio's hand, was motive enough 
to the deluded Othello to pass sentence of death 
upon them both, without once inquiring how 
Cassio came by it. Desdemona had never given 
such a present to Cassio, nor would this con- 
stant lady have wronged her lord with doing 
so naughty a thing, as giving his presents to 
another man ; both Cassio and Desdemona 
were innocent of any offence against Othello : 
but the wicked Iago, whose spirits never slept in 
contrivance of villany, had made his wife (a 
good, but aweak woman) steal this handkerchief 
from Desdemona, under pretence of getting 
the work copied, but in reality to drop it in 
Cassio's way, where he might find it, and give 



OTHELLO. 



07 



a handle to Iago's suggestion that it was Des- 
demona's present. 

Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pre- 
tended that he had a headach (as he might 
indeed with truth), and desired her to lend 
him her handkerchief to hold to his temples. 
She did so. "Not this," said Othello, "but 
that handkerchief I gave you." Desdemona 
had it not about her (for indeed it was stolen 
as we have related). "How!" said Othello, 
" this is a fault indeed. That handkerchief 
an Egyptian woman gave to my mother ; the 
woman was a witch, and could read people's 
thoughts : she told my mother, while she kept 
it, it would make her amiable, and my father 
would love her ; but, if she lost it, or gave it 
away, my father's fancy would turn, and he 
would loathe her as much as he had loved her. 
She dying, gave it to me, and bade me, if I ever 
married, to give it to my wife. I did so ; take 
heed of it. Make it a darling as precious as 
your eye." " Is it possible?" said the frighted 
lady. « 'Tis true," continued Othello ; " it is 
a magical handkerchief; a sibyl that had lived 
in the world two hundred years, in a fit of pro- 
phetic fury worked it ; the silk-worms that fur- 
nished the silk were hallowed, and it was dyed in 
mummy of maidens' hearts conserved." Des- 
demona, hearing the wondrous virtues of the 
handkerchief, was ready to die with fear, for 
she plainly perceived she had lost it, and with 
it, she feared, the affections of her husband. 
Then Othello started, and looked as if he were 
going to do some rash thing, and still he de- 
manded the handkerchief, which when she 
could not produce, she tried to divert her hus- 
band from too serious thoughts, and cheerfully 
told him, she saw all his talk about the hand- 
kerchief was only to put her off from her suit 
about Michael Cassio, whom she went on to 
praise (as Iago had foretold), till Othello in 
perfect distraction burst out of the room, and 
then Desdemona, though unwillingly, began to 
suspect her lord was jealous. 

What cause she could have ministered to 
him she knew not, and then she accused her- 
self for accusing the noble Othello, and thought 
to be sure that some untoward news from 
Venice, or some state troubles, had puddled 
his spirits, and made his temper not so sweet 
as formerly. And she said, " Men are not gods, 
and we must not look for that observance from 
them when they are married, which they show 
us on the bridal day." And she beshrewed her- 
self for so unkindly judging of his unkindness. 

Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he 
accused her more plainly of being unfaithful, 
and of loving another man, but he did not 
name whom : and Othello wept, and Desdemona 
said, " Alas ! the heavy day ! why do you 
weep ? " And Othello told her, he could have 
borne all sorts of evils with fortitude — poverty, 
and disease, and disgrace ; but her infidelity 
had broken his heart : and he called her a 



weed, that looked so fair, and smelled so sweet, 
that the sense ached at it ; and wished she had 
never been born. And when he had left her, 
this innocent lady was so stupified with wonder 
at her lord's untrue suspicion of her, that a 
weight-like sleep came over her, and she only 
desired her attendant, to make her bed, and 
to lay her wedding-sheets upon it, saying, 
that when people teach their babes, they do 
it by gentle means and easy tasks, and Othello 
might have chid her so ; for in good faith she 
was but a child when she was chidden. And 
this was all the complaint which this gentle 
lady made. 

Desdemona being retired to bed, expecting 
her lord would follow her, soon fell into a slum- 
ber, the effect of her troubled spirits, when 
Othello entered the chamber, full of the black 
purpose which he had meditated of putting his 
lady to death. But when he saw her asleep, 
he thought he would not shed her blood, nor 
scar that white skin of hers, more white than 
alabaster. But he was resolved she should die ; 
else (as he said), she would live to beti'ay more 
men, as she had done him. Then he kissed her 
for the last time (as he said), and that kiss was 
so sweet, he must needs kiss her again : and he 
wept, but he said they were cruel tears. 

Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, 
and she looked upon Othello, and she saw him 
gnaw his under-lip and roll his eyes, and she 
knew he was always fatal when he looked so : 
and he bade her prepare for death, and to say 
her prayers, for he would not kill her soul. 
And this innocent wife, as she lay at his mercy, 
begged for compassion, and to know her fault ; 
and then he named Cassio, and the handker- 
chief which (he said) she had given him : and 
as the guiltless lady was proceeding to clear 
herself, he suddenly would hear no more, but 
covering her up in the bed-clothes, stifled her 
till she died. 

In this instant of time was brought into the 
house Cassio, wounded and bleeding, whom 
Iago had set one of his creatures on to assassi- 
nate ; but the fellow not succeeding in his 
attempt to kill Cassio (whom he wounded, but 
not mortally), and being himself killed by Iago 
to prevent discovery, in his pockets were found 
certain letters, which made the guilt of Iago 
and the innocence of Cassio clear beyond all 
doubt ; and Cassio now came to beg pardon of 
Othello, and to ask wherein he had offended 
him, that he had employed Iago to murder him. 

This discovery was as a thunderstroke to 
Othello, who now plainly saw that he was no 
better than a murderer, and that his wife (poor 
innocent lady) had been ever faithful to him ; 
the extreme anguish of which discovery making 
life insupportable, he fell upon his sword, and 
throwing himself upon the body of his dear 
injured lady, expired. 

These rash acts raised much passion of horror 
and amazement in the bystanders, for Othello 



98 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



had borne a fair reputation, and till lie was 
wrought upon by the arts of a villain, which 
his own noble nature never gave him leave to 
suspect, he was a loving and a doting husband. 
He had loved, not wisely, but too well ; and 
his manly eyes (when he learned his mistake), 
though not used to weep on every small occa- 
sion, dropped tears as fast as the Arabian trees 



their gum. And when he was dead, all his 
former merits and his valiant acts were remem- 
bered. Nothing now remained for his successor, 
but to put the utmost censure of the law in 
force against Iago, who was executed with strict 
tortures ; and to send word to the state of Venice 
of the lamentable death of their renowned 
general. 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 



PERicLEs,prince of Tyre, became a voluntary ' 
exile from his dominions, to avert the dreadful 
calamities which Antiochus, the wicked em- 
peror of Greece, threatened to bring upon his 
subjects and city of Tyre, in revenge for a dis- 
covery which the prince had made of a shocking 
deed which the emperor had done in secret ; 
as commonly it proves dangerous to pry into 
the hidden crimes of great ones. Leaving the 
government of his people in the hands of his 
able and honest minister, Hellicanus, Pericles 
set sail from Tyre, thinking to absent himself 
till the wrath of Antiochus, who was mighty, 
should be appeased. 

The first place which the prince directed his 
course to was Tharsus ; and hearing that the 
city of Tharsus was at that time suffering under 
a severe famine, he took with him store of pro- 
visions for its relief. On his arrival he found 
the city reduced to the utmost distress ; and 
he coming like a messenger from heaven with 
this unhoped-for succour, Cleon, the governor 
of Tharsus, welcomed him with boundless 
thanks. Pericles had not been here many 
days, before letters came from his faithful 
minister, warning him that it was not safe for 
him to stay at Tharsus, for Antiochus knew of 
his abode, and by secret emissaries despatched 
for that purpose sought his life. Upon receipt 
of these letters, Pericles put out to sea again, 
amidst the blessings and prayers of a whole 
people who had been fed by his bounty. 

He had not sailed far, when his ship was 
overtaken by a dreadful storm, and every man 
on board perished except Pericles, who was 
cast by the sea-waves naked on an unknown 
shore, where he had not wandered long before 
he met with some poor fishermen, who invited 
him to their homes, giving him clothes and pro- 
visions. The fishermen told Pericles the name 
of their country was Pentapolis, and that their 
king was Symonides, commonly called the 
good Symonides, becaiise of his peaceable 
reign and good government. From them he 
also learned that king Symonides had a fair 
young daughter, and that the following day 
was her birth-day, when a grand tournament 



was to be held at court, many princes and 
knights being come from all parts to try their 
skill in arms for the love of Thai sa, this fair 
princess. While the prince was listening to 
this account, and secretly lamenting the loss 
of his good armour, which disabled him from 
making one among these valiant knights, 
another fisherman brought in a complete suit 
of armour that he had taken out of the sea 
with his fishing-net, which proved to be the 
very armour he had lost. When Pericles 
beheld his own armour, he said, "Thanks, 
Fortune ; after all my crosses, you give me 
somewhat to repair myself. This armour was 
bequeathed to me by my dead father, for whose 
dear sake I have so loved it, that whitherso- 
ever I went, I still have kept it by me, and the 
rough sea that parted it from me, having now 
become calm, hath given it back again, for 
which I thank it, for, since I have my father's 
gift again. I think my shipwreck no misfor- 
tune." 

The next day Pericles, clad in his brave 
father's armour, repaired to the royal court of 
Symonides, where he performed wonders at 
the tournament, vanquishing with ease all the 
brave knights and valiant princes who con- 
tended with him in arms for the honour of 
Thaisa's love. When brave warriors con- 
tended at court-tournaments for the love of 
kings' daughters, if one proved sole victor over 
all the rest, it was usual for the great lady for 
whose sake these deeds of valour were under- 
taken to bestow all her respect upon the con- 
queror, and Thaisa did not depart from this 
custom, for she presently dismissed all the 
princes and knights whom Pericles had van- 
quished, and distinguished him by her especial 
favour and regard, crowning him with the 
wreath of victory, as king of that day's happi- 
ness ; and Pericles became a most passionate 
lover of this beauteous princess from the first 
moment he beheld her. 

The good Symonides so well approved of the 
valour and noble qualities of Pericles, who was 
indeed a most accomplished gentleman, and 
well learned in all excellent arts, that, though 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 



99 



he knew not the rank of this royal stranger 
(for Pericles for fear of Antiochus gave out 
that he was a private gentleman of Tyre), yet 
did not Syraonides disdain to accept of the 
valiant unknown for a son-in-law, when he per- 
ceived his daughter's affections were firmly 
fixed upon him. 

Pericles had not been many months married 
to Thaisa, before he received intelligence that 
his enemy Antiochus was dead ; and that his 
subjects of Tyre, impatient of his long absence, 
threatened to revolt, and talked of placing 
Hellicanus upon his vacant throne. This 
news came from Hellicanus himself, who being 
a loyal subject to his royal master, would not 
accept of the high dignity offered him, but 
sent to let Pericles know their intentions, that 
he might return home and resume his lawful 
right. It was matter of great surprise and joy 
to Symonides to find that his son-in-law (the 
obscure knight) was the renowned prince of 
Tyre ; yet again he regretted that he was not 
the private gentleman he supposed him to be, 
seeing that he must now part both with his 
admired son-in-law, and his beloved daughter, 
whom he feared to trust to the perils of the 
sea, because Thaisa was with child ; and 
Pericles himself wished her to remain with her 
father till after her confinement ; but the poor 
lady so earnestly desired to go with her hus- 
band, that at last they consented, hoping 
she would reach Tyre before she was brought 
to bed. 

The sea was no friendly element to unhappy 
Pericles, for long before they reached Tyre, 
another dreadful tempest arose, which so 
terrified Thaisa that she was taken ill, and in 
a short space of time her nurse, Lychorida, 
came to Pericles with a little child in her arms, 
to tell the prince the sad tidings that his wife 
died the moment her little babe was born. 
She held the babe towards its father, saying, 
" Here is a thing too young for such a place. 
This is the child of your dead queen." No 
tongue can tell the dreadful sufferings of 
Pericles when he heard his wife was dead. 
As soon as he could speak, he said, " O you 
gods, why do you make us love your goodly 
gifts, and then snatch those gifts away % " 
" Patience, good sir," said Lychorida ; " here is 
all that is left alive of our dead queen, a little 
daughter, and for your child's sake be more 
manly. Patience, good sir, even for the sake 
of this precious charge." Pericles took the 
new-born infant in his arms, and he said to the 
little babe, " Now may your life be mild, for a 
more blusterous birth had never babe ! May 
your condition be mild and gentle, for you 
have had the rudest welcome that ever prince's 
child did meet with ! May that which follows 
be happy, for you have had as chiding a 
nativity as fire, air, water, earth, and heaven 
could make, to herald you from the womb ! 
Even at the first, your loss," meaning in the 



death of her mother, " is more than all the joys 
which you shall find upon this earth, to which 
you are come a new visiter, shall be able to 
recompense." 

The storm still continuing to rage furiously, 
and the sailors having a superstition that while 
a dead body remained in the ship the storm 
would never cease, they came to Pericles to 
demand that his queen should be thrown over- 
board ; and they said, " What, courage, sir ? 
God save you ! " " Courage enough," said the 
sorrowing prince : I do not fear the storm ; it 
has done to me its worst ; yet for the love of 
this poor infant, this fresh new sea-farer, I 
wish the storm was over." " Sir," said the 
sailors, " your queen must overboard. The sea 
works high, the wind is loud, and the storm 
will not abate till the ship be cleared of the 
dead." Though Pericles knew how weak and 
unfounded this superstition was, yet he patiently 
submitted, saying, " As you think meet. Then 
she must overboard, most wretched queen !" 
And now this unhappy prince went to take a 
last view of his dear wife, and as he looked on 
his Thaisa, he said, " A terrible child-bed hast 
thou had, my dear : no light, no fire ; the 
unfriendly elements forgot thee utterly, nor 
have I time to bring thee hallowed to thy 
grave, but must cast thee scarcely coffined into 
the sea, where for a monument upon thy bones 
the humming waters must overwhelm thy 
corpse, lying with simple shells. O Lychorida, 
bid Nestor bring me spices, ink, and paper, my 
casket and my jewels, and bid Nicandor bring 
me the satin coffin. Lay the babe upon the 
pillow, and go about this suddenly, Lychorida, 
while I say a priestly farewell to my Thaisa." 

They brought Pericles a large chest, in which 
(wrapt in a satin shroud) he placed his queen, 
and sweet-smelling spices he strewed over her; 
and beside her he placed rich jewels, and a 
written paper, telling who she was, and pray- 
ing if haply any one should find the chest 
which contained the body of his wife, they 
would give her burial : and then with his own 
hands he cast the chest into the sea. When 
the storm was over, Pericles ordered the 
sailors to make for Tharsus. " For," said 
Pericles, " the babe cannot hold out till we 
come to Tyre. At Tharsus I will leave it at 
careful nursing." 

After that tempestuous night when Thaisa 
was thrown into the sea, and while it was 
yet early morning, as Cerimon, a worthy 
gentleman of Ephesus, and a most skilful phy- 
sician, was standing by the sea-side, his servants 
brought to him a chest, which they said the 
sea- waves had thrown on the land. " I never 
saw," said one of them, " so huge a billow as cast 
it on our shore." Cerimon ordered the chest 
to be conveyed to his own house ; and when it 
was opened, he beheld with wonder the body 
of a young and lovely lady ; and the sweet- 
smelling spices, and rich casket of jewels, 



100 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



made him conclude it was some great person 
who was thus strangely entombed : searching 
further, he discovered a paper from which he 
learned that the corpse which lay as dead 
before him had been a queen, and wife to 
Pericles, prince of Tyre ; and much admiring 
at the strangeness of that accident, and more 
pitying the husband who had lost this sweet 
lady, he said, " If you are living, Pericles, you 
have a heart that even cracks with woe." 
Then observing attentively Thaisa's face, he 
saw how fresh and unlike death her looks 
were ; and he said, " They were too hasty that 
threw you into the sea : " for he did not believe 
her to be dead. He ordered a fire to be made, 
and proper cordials to be brought, and soft 
music to be played, which might help to calm 
her amazed spirits if she should revive ; and 
he said to those who crowded round her, won- 
dering at what they saw, " I pray you, gentle- 
men, give her air ; this queen will live ; she 
has not been entranced above five hours ; and 
see, she begins to blow into life again, she is 
alive ; behold her eyelids move ; this fair 
creature will live to make us weep to hear her 
fate." Thaisa had never died, but, after the 
birth of her little baby, had fallen into a deep 
swoon, which made all that saw her conclude 
her to be dead ; and now by the care of this 
kind gentleman she once more revived to 
light and life ; and opening her eyes, she said, 
" Where am I ? Where is my lord ? What 
world is this ? " By gentle degrees Cerimon let 
her understand what had befallen her ; and when 
he thought she was enough recovered to bear 
the sight, he showed bier the paper written by 
her husband, and the jewels ; and she looked 
on the paper, and said, "It is my lord's writing. 
That I was shipped at sea, I well remember ; 
but whether there delivered of my babe, by 
the holy gods I cannot rightly say ; but since 
my wedded lord I never shall see again, I will 
put on a vestal livery, andnevermore have joy." 
" Madam," said Cerimon, " if you purpose as 
you speak, the temple of Diana is not far dis- 
tant from hence ; there you may abide as a 
vestal. Moreover, if you please, a niece of 
mine shall there attend you." This proposal 
was accepted with thanks by Thaisa ; and 
when she was perfectly recovered, Cerimon 
placed her in the temple of Diana, where she 
became a vestal or priestess of that goddess, 
and passed her days in sorrowing for her hus- 
band's supposed loss, and in the most devout 
exercises of those times. 

Pericles carried his young daughter (whom 
he had named Marina, because she was born 
at sea) to Tharsus, intending to leave her with 
Cleon, the governor of that city, and his wife 
Dionysia, thinking, for the good he had done 
to them at the time of their famine, they would 
be kind to his little motherless daughter. 
When Cleon saw Prince Pericles, and heard of 
the great loss which had befallen him, he said, 



" O your sweet queen, that it had pleased 
Heaven you could have brought her hither to 
have blessed my eyes with the sight of her ! " 
Pericles replied, " We must obey the powers 
above us. Should I rage and roar as the sea 
does in which my Thaisa lies, yet the end 
must be as it is. My gentle babe, Marina here, 
I must charge your charity Avith her. I leave 
her the infant of your care, beseeching you to 
give her princely training." And then, turn- 
ing to Cleon's wife, Dionysia, he said, " Good 
madam, make me blessed in your care in bring- 
ing up my child :" and she answered, " I have a 
child myself who shall not be more dear to my 
respect than yours, my lord ; " and Cleon made 
the like promise, saying, " Your noble services, 
Prince Pericles, in feeding my whole people 
with your corn (for which in their prayers 
they daily remember you), must in your child 
be thought on. If I should neglect your child, 
my whole people that were by you relieved 
would force me to my duty : but if to that 
I need a spur, the gods revenge it on me 
and mine to the end of generation ! " Pericles, 
being thus assured that his child would be 
carefully attended to, left her to the protection 
of Cleon and his wife Dionysia ; and with her 
he left the nurse Lychorida. When he went 
away, the little Marina knew not her loss, but 
Lychorida wept sadly at parting with her royal 
master. " Oh, no tears, Lychorida," said Peri- 
cles, " no tears ; look to your little mistress, 
on whose grace you may depend hereafter." 

Pericles arrived in safety at Tyre, and was 
once more settled in the quiet possession of 
his throne, while his woeful queen, whom he 
thought dead, remained at Ephesus. Her little 
babe Marina, whom this hapless mother had 
never seen, was brought up by Cleon in a 
manner suitable to her high birth. He gave 
her the most careful education, so that by the 
time Marina attained the age of fourteen years, 
the most deeply-learned men were not more 
studied in the learning of those times than was 
Marina. She sung like one immortal, and 
danced as goddess-like ; and with her needle 
she was so skilful, that she seemed to compose 
nature's own shapes, in birds, fruits, or flowers, 
the natural roses being scarcely more like to 
each other than they were to Marina's silken 
flowers. But when she had gained from education 
all these graces, which made her the general 
wonder, Dionysia, the wife of Cleon, became 
her mortal enemy from jealousy, by reason 
that her own daughter, from the slowness of 
her mind, was not able to attain to that per- 
fection wherein Marina excelled : and finding 
that all praise was bestowed on Marina, whilst 
her daughter, who was of the same age, and 
had been educated with the same care as 
Marina, though not with the same success, 
was in comparison disregarded, she formed a 
project to remove Marina out of the way, 
vainly imagining that her untoward daughter 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 



101 



would be more respected when Marina was no 
more seen. To encompass this she employed 
a man to murder Marina, and she well timed 
her wicked design, when Lychorida, the faith- 
ful nurse, had just died. Dionysia was dis- 
coursing with the man she had commanded to 
commit this murder, when the young Marina 
was weeping over the dead Lychorida. Leoline, 
the man she employed to do this bad deed, 
though he was a very wicked man, could hardly 
be persuaded to undertake it, so had Marina 
won all hearts to love her. He said, " She is 
a goodly creature ! " " The fitter then the 
gods should have her," replied her merciless 
enemy : " here she comes, weeping for the 
death of her nurse Lychorida : are you resolved 
to obey me 2" Leoline, fearing to disobey her, 
replied, " I am resolved." And so, in that 
one short sentence, was the matchless Marina 
doomed to an untimely death. She now ap- 
proached, with a basket of flowers in her hand, 
which she said she would daily strew over the 
grave of good Lychorida. The purple violet 
and the marigold should as a carpet hang 
upon her grave, while summer days did last. 
" Alas for me ! " she said, " poor unhappy 
maid, born in a tempest, when my mother 
died. This world to me is like a lasting storm, 
hurrying me from my friends." " How now, 
Marina," said the dissembling Dionysia, " do 
you weep alone ? How does it chance my 
daughter is not with you ? Do not sorrow for 
Lychorida, you have a nurse in me. Your 
beauty is quite changed with this unprofitable 
woe. Come, give me your flowers, the sea-air 
will spoil them ; and walk with Leoline : the 
air is fine, and will enliven you. Come, Leoline, 
take her by the arm, and walk with her." " No, 
madam," said Marina, " I pray you let me not 
deprive you of your servant : " for Leoline 
was one of Dionysia's attendants. " Come, 
come," said this artful woman, who wished for 
a pretence to leave her alone with Leoline, " I 
love the prince your father, and I love you. 
We every day expect your father here ; and 
when he comes, and finds you so changed by 
grief from the paragon of beauty we reported 
you, he will think we have taken no care of 
you. Go, I pray you, walk, and be cheerful 
once again. Be careful of that excellent com- 
plexion, which stole the hearts of old and 
young." Marina, being thus importuned, said, 
" Well, I will go, but yet I have no desire to 
it." As Dionysia walked away, she said to 
Leoline, "Remember what I have said /" — shock- 
ing words, for their meaning was that he 
should remember to kill Marina. 

Marina looked towards the sea, her birth- 
place, and said, "Is the wind westerly that 
blows ? " " South-west," replied Leoline. 
" When I was born, the wind was north," said 
she : and then the storm and tempest, and all 
her father's sorrows, and her mother's death, 
came full into her mind ; and she said, " My 



father, as Lychorida told me, did never fear, 
but cried, Courage, good seamen, to the sailors, 
galling his princely hands with the ropes, and, 
clasping to the mast, he endured a sea that 
almost split the deck." " When was this ?" 
said Leoline. " When I was born," replied 
Marina : " never were waves nor wind more 
violent." And then she described the storm, 
the action of the sailors, the boatswain's 
whistle, and the loud call of the master, 
" which," said she, " trebled the confusion of 
the ship." Lychorida had so often recounted 
to Marina the story of her hapless birth, that 
these things seemed ever present to her imagi- 
nation. But here Leoline interrupted her with 
desiring her to say her prayers. " What mean 
you ?" said Marina, who began to fear, she 
knew not why. " If you require a little space 
for prayer, I grant it," said Leoline ; " but be 
not tedious ; the gods are quick of ear, and I 
am sworn to do my work in haste." " Will 
you kill me?" said Marina: "alas! why?" 
" To satisfy my lady," replied Leoline. " Why 
would she have me killed ? " said Marina : 
" now, as I can remember, I never hurt her in 
all my life. I never spake bad word, nor did 
any ill turn to any living creature. Believe 
me now, I never killed a mouse, nor hurt a fly. 
I trod upon a worm once against my will, but 
I wept for it. How have I offended ?" The 
murderer replied, " My commission is not to 
reason on the deed, but to do it." And he was 
just going to kill her, when certain pirates 
happened to land at that very moment, who 
seeing Marina, bore her off as a prize to their 
ship. 

The pirate who had made Marina his prize 
carried her to Metaline, and sold her for a 
slave, where, though in that humble condition, 
Marina soon became known throughout the 
whole city of Metaline for her beauty and her 
virtues ; and the person to whom she was sold 
became rich by the money she earned for him. 
She taught music, dancing, and fine needle- 
works ; and the money she got by her scholars 
she gave to her master and mistress ; and the 
fame of her learning and her great industry 
came to the knowledge of Lysimachus, a young 
nobleman who was governor of Metaline; 
and Lysimachus went himself to the house 
where Marina dwelt, to see this paragon of 
excellence, whom all the city praised so highly. 
Herconversation delighted Lysimachus beyond 
measure ; for though he had heard much of this 
admired maiden, he did not expect to find her 
so sensible a lady, so virtuous, and so good, as 
he perceived Marina to be ; and he left her, 
saying he hoped she would persevere in her 
industrious and virtuous course, and that if 
ever she heard from him again it should be for 
her good. Lysimachus thought Marina such a 
miracle for sense, fine breeding, and excellent 
qualities, as well as for beauty and all out- 
ward graces, that he wished to marry her, and 



102 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



notwithstanding her humble situation,he hoped 
to find that her birth was noble ; but ever when 
they asked her parentage, she would sit still 
and weep. 

Meantime, at Tharsus, Leoline, fearing the 
anger of Dionysia, told her he had killed 
Marina ; and that wicked woman gave out 
that she was dead, and made a pretended 
funeral for her, and erected a stately monu- 
ment ; and shortly after, Pericles, accompanied 
by his loyal minister Hellicanus, made a voyage 
from Tyre to Tharsus, on purpose to see his 
daughter, intending to take her home with 
him ; and, he never having beheld her since he 
left her an infant in the care of Cleon and his 
wife, how did this good prince rejoice at the 
thought of seeing this dear child of his buried 
queen ! but when they told him Marina was 
dead, and showed the monument they had 
erected for her, great was the misery this 
most wretched father endured, and, not being 
able to bear the sight of that country where 
his last hope and only memory of his dear 
Thaisa was entombed, he took ship and hastily 
departed from Tharsus. From the day he 
entered the ship, a dull and heavy melancholy 
seized him. He never spoke, and seemed to- 
tally insensible to everything around him. 

Sailing from Tharsus to Tyre, the ship in 
its course passed by Metaline, where Marina 
dwelt ; the governor of which place, Lysima- 
chus, observing this royal vessel from the shore, 
and desirous of knowing who w r as on board, 
went in a barge to the side of the ship, to 
satisfy his curiosity. Hellicanus received him 
very courteously, and told him that the ship 
came from Tyre, and that they were conducting 
thither Pericles, their prince; "a man, sir," 
said Hellicanus, " who has not spoken to any 
one these three months, nor taken any suste- 
nance, but just to prolong his grief ; it would 
be tedious to repeat the whole ground of his 
distemper, but the main springs from the loss of 
a beloved daughter and a wife.*' Lysimachus 
begged to see this afflicted prince ; and when he 
beheld Pericles, he saw he had been on ce a goodly 
person, and he said to him, " Sir king, all hail, 
the gods preserve you ; hail, royal sir ! " But 
in vain Lysimachus spoke to him ; Pericles 
made no answer, nor did be appear to perceive 
any stranger approached. And then Lysima- 
chus bethought him of the peerless maid Marina, 
that haply with her sweet tongue she might 
win some answer from the silent prince : and 
with the consent of Hellicanus he sent for 
Marina ; and when she entered the ship in 
which her own father sat motionless with grief, 
they welcomed her on board as if they had 
known she was their princess ; and they cried, 
" She is a gallant lady." Lysimachus was well 
pleased to hear their commendations, and he 
said, " She is such a one, that were I well as- 
sured she came of noble birth, I would wish no 
better choice, and think me rarely blessed in a 



wife.'* And then he addressed her in courtly 
terms, as if the lowly-seeming maid had been 
the high-born lady he wished to find her, call- 
ing her Fair and beautiful Marina, telling her a 
great prince on board that ship had fallen into 
a sad and mournful silence ; and, as if Marina 
had the power of conferring health and felicity, 
he begged she would undertake to cure the 
royal stranger of his melancholy. " Sir," said 
Marina, " I will use my utmost skill in his re- 
covery, provided none but I and my maid be 
suffered to come near him." 

She, who at Metaline had so carefully con- 
cealed her birth, ashamed to tell that one of 
royal ancestry was now a slave, first began to 
speak to Pericles of the wayward changes in 
her own fate, telling him from what a high 
estate herself had fallen. As if she had 
known it was her royal father she stood 
before, all the words she spoke were of her 
own sorrows ; but her reason for so doing was, 
that she knew nothing more wins the atten- 
tion of the unfortunate than the recital of 
some sad calamity to match their -own. The 
sound of her sweet voice aroused the drooping 
prince ; he lifted up his eyes, which had been so 
long fixed and motionless ; and Marina, who was 
the perfect image of her mother, presented to 
his amazed sight the features of his dead queen. 
The long-silent prince was once more heard to 
speak. " My dearest wife," said the awakened 
Pericles, " was like this maid ; and such a one 
might my daughter have been. My queen's 
square brows, her stature to an inch, as wand- 
like straight, as silver-voiced, her eyes as 
jewel- like. Where do you live, young maid ? 
Report your parentage. I think you said you 
had been tossed from wrong to injury, and 
that you thought your griefs would equal mine, 
if both were opened." " Some such thing I 
said," replied Marina, " and said no more than 
what my thoughts did warrant me as likely." 
" Tell me your story," answered Pericles ; " if 
I find you have known the thousandth part of 
my endurance, you have borne your sorrows 
like a man, and I have suffered like a girl ; 
yet you do look like Patience gazing on kings' 
graves, and smiling Extremity out of act. 
How lost you your name, my most kind virgin ? 
Recount your story, I beseech you. Come, 
sit by me." Plow was Pericles surprised when 
she said her name was Marina ! for he knew it 
was no usual name, but had been invented by 
himself for his own child, to signify sea-born : 
"Oh, I am mocked," said he, "and you are 
sent hither by some incensed god to make the 
world laugh at me." "Patience, good sir," 
said Marina, " or I must cease here." " Nay," 
said Pericles, " I will be patient ; you little 
know how you do startle me, to call yourself 
Marina." "The name," she replied, "was 
given me by one that had some power, my 
father, and a king." " How, a king's daughter ! " 
said Pericles, " and called Marina ! But are 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 



103 



you flesh and blood ? are you no fairy ? Speak 
on ; where were you born ? and wherefore 
called Marina ? " She replied, " I was called 
Marina, because I was born at sea. My mother 
was the daughter of a king ; she died the 
minute I was born, as my good nurse Lychorida 
has often told me weeping. The king my 
father left me at Tharsus, till the cruel wife 
of Cleon sought to murder me. A crew of 
pirates came and rescued me, and brought me 
here to Metaline. But, good sir, why do you 
weep ? It may be, you think me an impostor. 
But indeed, sir, I am the daughter to King 
Pericles, if good King Pericles be living." Then 
Pericles, terrified as it seemed at his own 
sudden joy, and doubtful if this could be real, 
loudly called for his attendants, who rejoiced 
at the sound of their beloved king's voice ; 
and he said to Hellicanus, "O Hellicanus, 
strike me, give me a gash, put me to present 
pain, lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me, 
overbear the shores of my mortality. Oh, come 
hither, thou that wast born at sea, buried at 
Tharsus, and found at sea again. O Hellicanus, 
down on your knees, thank the holy gods ! 
This is Marina. Now blessings on thee, my 
child ! Give me fresh garments, mine own 
Hellicanus ! She is not dead at Tharsus, as 
she should have been by the savage Dionysia. 
She shall tell you all, when you shall kneel to 
her, and call her your very princess. Who is 
this ? " (observing Lysimachus for the first 
time). " Sir," said Hellicanus, " it is the 
governor of Metaline, who, hearing of your 
melancholy, came to see you." " I embrace 
you, sir," said Pericles. " Give me my robes ! 

I am well with beholding O Heaven bless 

my girl ! But hark ! what music is that ? " — 
for now, either sent by some kind god, or by 
his own delighted fancy deceived, he seemed 
to hear soft music. " My lord, I hear none," 
replied Hellicanus. " None," said Pericles ; 
" why, it is the music of the spheres." As there 
was no music to be heard, Lysimachus con- 
cluded that the sudden joy had unsettled the 
prince's understanding ; and he said, " It is 
not good to cross him ; let him have his way : " 
and then they told him they heard the music ; 
and he now complaining of a drowsy slumber 
coming over him, Lysimachus persuaded him 
to rest on a couch, and placing a pillow under 
his head, he, quite overpowered with excess 
of joy, sunk into a sound sleep, and Marina 
watched in silence by the couch of her sleeping- 
parent. 

"While he slept, Pericles dreamed a dream 
which made him resolve to go to Ephesus. 
His dream was, that Diana, the goddess, of the 
Ephesians, appeared to him, and commanded 
him to go to her temple at Ephesus, and there 
before her altar to declare the story of his life 
and misfortunes ; and by her silver bow she 
swore, that if he performed her injunction, he 
should meet with some rare felicity. When 



he awoke, being miraculously refreshed, he 
told his dream, and that his resolution was to 
obey the bidding of the goddess. 

Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come 
on shore, and refresh himself with such enter- 
tainment as he should find at Metaline ; which 
courteous offer Pericles accepting, agreed to 
tarry with him for the space of a day or two. 
During which time we may well suppose what 
feastings, what rejoicings, what costly shows 
and entertainments the governor made in 
Mr + aline, to greet the royal father of his dear 
Marina, whom in her obscure fortunes he had 
so respected. Nor did Pericles frown upon 
Lysimachus's suit, when he understood how 
he had honoured his child in the days of her 
low estate, and that Marina showed herself not 
averse to his proposals ; only he made it a 
condition, before he gave his consent, that 
they should visit with him the shrine of the 
Ephesian Diana : to whose temple they, 
shortly after, all three undertook a voyage ; 
and the goddess herself filling their sails with 
prosperous winds, after a few weeks they 
arrived in safety at Ephesus. 

There was standing near the altar of the 
goddess, when Pericles with his train entered 
the temple, the good Cerimon (now grown very 
aged) who had restored Thaisa, the wife of 
Pericles, to life ; and Thaisa, now a priestess 
of the temple, was standing before the altar ; 
and though the many years he had passed in 
sorrow for her loss had much altered Pericles, 
Thaisa thought she knew her husband's features ; 
and when he approached the altar and began 
to speak, she remembered his voice, and listened 
to his words with wonder and a joyful amaze- 
ment. And these were the words that Peri- 
cles spoke before the altar : "Hail, Diana ! to 
perform thy just commands, I here confess 
myself the Prince of Tyre, who, frighted from 
my country, at Pentapolis wedded the fair 
Thaisa : she died at sea in childbed, but brought 
forth a maid-child called Marina. She at 
Tharsus was nursed with Dionysia, who at 
fourteen years thought to kill her ; but her 
better stars brought her to Metaline, by whose 
shores as I sailed, her good fortunes brought 
this maid on board, where by her most clear 
remembrance she made herself known to be 
my daughter." 

Thaisa, unable to bear the transports which 
his words had raised in her, cried out, " You 

are, you are, royal Pericles" and fainted. 

"What means this woman?" said Pericles: 
" she dies ; gentlemen, help ! " " Sir," said 
Cerimon, " if you have told Diana's altar true, 
this is your wife." "Reverend gentleman, 
no," said Pericles : " I threw her overboard 
with these very arms." Cerimon then recounted 
how, early one tempestuous morning, this lady 
was thrown upon the Ephesian shore ; how, 
opening the coffin, he found therein rich jewels, 
and a paper ; how, happily, he recovered her, 



104 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



and placed her here in Diana's temple. And 
now, Thaisa being restored from her swoon, 
said, " O my lord, are you not Pericles ? Like 
him you speak, like him you are. Did you not 
name a tempest, a birth, and death ?" He, as- 
tonished, said, " The voice of dead Thaisa !" 
" That Thaisa am I," she replied, " supposed 
dead and drowned." " true Diana !" ex- 
claimed Pericles, in a passion of devout asto- 
nishment. " And now," said Thaisa, " I know 
you better. Such a ring as I see on your finger 
did the king my father give you, when we with 
tears parted from him at Pentapolis." "Enough, 
you gods !" cried Pericles, " your present kind- 
ness makes my past miseries sport. O come, 
Thaisa, be buried a second time within these 
arms." 

And Marina said, "My heart leaps to be 
gone into my mother's bosom. Then did Peri- 
cles show his daughter to her mother, saying, 
" Look who kneels here, flesh of thy flesh, thy 
burthen at sea, and called Marina, because she 
was yielded there." " Blessed and my own !" 
said Thaisa: and while she hung in rapturous 
joy over her child, Pericles knelt before the 
altar, saying " Pure Diana, bless thee for thy 
vision ! For this, I will offer oblations nightly 
to thee." And then and there did Pericles, 
with the consent of Thaisa, solemnly affiance 



their daughter, the virtuous Marina, to the 
well-deserving Lysimachus in marriage. 

Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen, and 
daughter, a famous example of virtue assailed 
by calamity (through the sufferance of Heaven, 
to teach patience and constancy to men), under 
the same guidance becoming finally successful, 
and triumphing over chance and change. In 
Hellicanus we have beheld a notable pattern 
of truth, of faith, and loyalty, who, when he 
might have succeeded to a throne, chose rather 
to recall the rightful owner to his possession, 
than to become great by another's wrong. In 
the worthy Cerimon, who restored Thaisa to 
life, we are instructed how goodness directed by 
knowledge, in bestowingbenefits upon mankind, 
approaches to the nature of the gods. It only 
remains to be told, that Dionysia, the wicked 
wife of Cleon, met with an end proportionable 
to her deserts; the inhabitants of Tharsus, 
when her cruel attempt upon Marina was 
known,rising in a body to revenge the daughter 
of their benefactor, and setting fire to the 
palace of Cleon, burned both him and her, and 
their whole household : the gods seeming well 
pleased that so foul a murder, though but in- 
tentional, and never carried into act, should be 
punished in a way befitting its enormity. 



THE END. 



London : 
bradbury and evans, printers, whitkfriars. 



PREFACE. 



This work is designed as a supplement to the Adventures of Telemachus. It treats of the conduct 
and sufferings of Ulysses, the father of Telemachus. The picture which it exhibits is that of a brave 
man struggling with adversity ; by a wise use of events, and with an inimitable presence of mind 
under difficulties, forcing out a way for himself through the severest trials to which human life can 
be exposed ; with enemies natural and preternatural surrounding him on all sides. The agents in this 
tale, besides men and women, are giants, enchanters, sirens : things which denote external force or 
internal temptations, the twofold danger which a wise fortitude must expect to encounter in its course 
through this world. The fictions contained in it will be found to comprehend some of the most 
admired inventions of Grecian mythology. 

The ground-work of the story is as old as the Odyssey, but the moral and the colouring are com- 
paratively modern. By avoiding the prolixity which marks the speeches and the descriptions in 
Homer, I have gained a rapidity to the narration, which I hope will make it more attractive and 
give it more the air of a romance to young readers, though I am sensible that by the curtailment I 
have sacrificed in many places the manners to the passion, the subordinate characteristics«to the essen- 
tial interest of the story. The attempt is not to be considered as seeking a comparison with any of 
the direct translations of the Odyssey, either in prose or verse, though if I were to state the obligations 
which I have had to one obsolete version*, I. should run the hazard of depriving myself of the 
very slender degree of reputation which I could hope to acquire from a trifle like the present 
undertaking. 

* The translation of Homer by Chapman, in the reign of James I. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER I. page 

The Cicons.— The Fruit of the Lotos Tree.— Polyphemus and the Cyclops.— The Kingdom of the Winds, 

and God iEolus's Fatal Present. — The Lasstrygonian Man-Eaters ....... 1 

CHAPTER II. 

The House of Circe.— Men changed into Beasts.— The Voyage to Hell.— The Banquet of the Dead . . 5 

CHAPTER III. 

The Song of the Sirens.— Scylla and Charyhdis.— The Oxen of the Sun.— The Judgment.— The Crew 

killed by Lightning ............... 10 

CHAPTER IV. 
The Island of Calypso.— Immortality refused .... 13 

CHAPTER V. 

The Tempest.— The Sea-Bird's Gift.— The Escape by Swimming.— The Sleep in the Woods ... 15 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Princess Nausicaa.— The Washing.— The Game with the Ball.— The Court of Phaeacia and King 

Alcinous 17 

CHAPTER Vn. 

The Songs of Demodocus.— The Convoy Home.— The Mariners Transformed to Stone.— The Young 

Shepherd ' 19 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Change from a King to a Beggar.— Eumasus and the Herdsmen.— Telemachus . . . .22 

CHAPTER IX. 

The Queen's Suitors.— The Battle of the Beggars.— The Armour taken down.— The Meeting with 

Penelope .27 

CHAPTER X. 

The Madness from Above.— The Bow of Ulysses.— The Slaughter— The Conclusion .... 30 



THE 



ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES 



CHAPTER I. 

The Cicons.— The fruit of the lotos tree.— Polyphemus and 
the Cyclops — The kingdom of the winds, and god 
iEolus's fatal present. — The Laestrygonian man-eaters. 

This history tells of the wanderings of 
Ulysses and his followers in their return from 
Troy, after the destruction of that famous city 
of Asia by the Grecians. He was inflamed 
with a desire of seeing again, after a ten years' 
absence, his wife and native country Ithaca. 
He was king of a barren spot, and a poor 
country, in comparison of the fruitful plains 
of Asia which he was leaving, or the wealthy 
kingdoms which he touched upon in his re- 
turn ; yet wherever he came, he could never 
see a soil which appeared in his eyes half so 
sweet or desirable as his country earth. This 
made him refuse the offers of the goddess 
Calypso to stay with her, and partake of her 
immortality, in the delightful island ; and this 
gave him strength to break from the enchant- 
ments of Circe, the daughter of the Sun. 

From Troy ill winds cast Ulysses and his 
fleet upon the coast of the Cicons, a people 
hostile to the Grecians. Landing his forces, 
he laid siege to their chief city Ismarus, which 
he took, and with it much spoil, and slew many 
people. But success proved fatal to him ; for 
his soldiers, elated with the spoil and the good 
store of provisions which they found in that 
place, fell to eating and drinking, forgetful of 
their safety, till the Cicons, who inhabited the 
coast, had time to assemble their friends and 
allies from the interior, who mustering in pro- 
digious force, set upon the Grecians, while 
they negligently revelled and feasted, and 
slew many of them, and recovered the spoil. 
They, dispirited and thinned in their numbers, 
with difficulty made their retreat good to the 
ships. 

Thence they set sail, sad at heart, yet some- 
thing cheered that with such fearful odds 
against them they had not all been utterly 
destroyed. A dreadful tempest ensued, which 
for two nights and two days tossed them about, 



but the third day the weather cleared, and they 
had hopes of a favourable gale to carry them 
to Ithaca; but as they doubled the Cape of 
Malea, suddenly a north wind arising, drove 
them back as far as Cythera. After that, for 
the space of nine days, contrary winds con- 
tinued to drive them in an opposite direction 
to the point to which they were bound, and the 
tenth day they put in at a shore where a race 
of men dwell that are sustained by the fruit 
of the lotos tree. Here Ulysses sent some of 
his men to land for fresh water, who were met 
by certain of the inhabitants, that gave them 
some of their country food to eat ; not with 
any ill intention towards them, though in the 
event it proved pernicious ; for, having eaten 
of this fruit, so pleasant it proved to their ap- 
petite, that they in a minute quite forgot all 
thoughts of home, or of their countrymen^ or 
of ever returning back to the ships to give 
an account of what sort of inhabitants dwelt 
there, but they would needs stay and live tbere 
among them, and eat of that precious food for 
ever ; and when Ulysses sent other of his men 
to look for them, and to bring them back by 
force, they strove, and wept, and would not 
leave their food for heaven itself, so much the 
pleasure of that enchanting fruit had bewitched 
them. But Ulysses caused them to be bound 
hand and foot, and cast under the hatches ; 
and set sail with all possible speed from that 
baneful coast, lest others after them might 
taste the lotos, which had such strange quali- 
ties to make men forget their native country, 
and the thoughts of home. 

Coasting on all that night by unknown and 
out of the way shores, they came by day-break 
to the land where the Cyclops dwell, a sort of 
giant shepherds that neither sow nor plough, 
but the earth untilled produces for them rich 
wheat and barley and grapes, yet they have 
neither bread nor wine, nor know the arts of 
cultivation, nor care to know them : for they 
live each man to himself, without laws or 
government, or any thing like a state or king- 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



dom, but their dwellings are in caves, on the 
steep heads of mountains, every man's house- 
hold governed by his own caprice, or not 
governed at all, their wives and children as 
lawless as themselves, none caring for others, 
but each doing as he or she thinks good. Ships 
or boats they have none, nor artificers to make 
them, no trade or commerce, or wish to visit 
other shores ; yet they have convenient places 
for harbours and for shipping. Here Ulysses 
with a chosen party of twelve followers land- 
ed, to explore what sort of men dwelt there, 
whether hospitable and friendly to strangers, 
or altogether wild and savage, for as yet no 
dwellers appeared in sight. 

The first sign of habitation which they came 
to was a giant's cave rudely fashioned, but of 
a size which betokened the vast proportions of 
its owner, the pillars which supported it being 
the bodies of huge oaks or pines, in the natural 
state of the tree, and all about showed more 
marks of strength than skill in whoever built 
it. Ulysses, entering in, admired the savage 
contrivances and artless structure of the place, 
and longed to see the tenant of so outlandish 
a mansion ; but well conjecturing that gifts 
would have more avail in extracting courtesy, 
than strength could succeed in forcing it, from 
such a one as he expected to find the inhabitant, 
he resolved to flatter his hospitality with a pre- 
sent of Greek wine, of which he had store in 
twelve great vessels ; so strong that no one ever 
drank it without an infusion of twenty parts of 
water to one of wine, yet the fragrance of it even 
then so delicious, that it would have vexed a 
man who smelled it to abstain from tasting it ; 
but whoever tasted it, it was able to raise his 
courage to the height of heroic deeds. Taking 
with them a goat-skin flagon full of this pre- 
cious liquor, they ventured into the recesses of 
the cave. Here they pleased themselves a 
whole day with beholding the giant's kitchen, 
where the flesh of sheep and goats lay strew- 
ed, his dairy where goat-milk stood ranged in 
troughs and pails, his pens where he kept his 
live animals ; but those he had driven forth to 
pasture with him when he went out in the 
morning. While they were feasting their eyes 
with a .sight of these curiosities, their ears 
were suddenly deafened with a noise like the 
falling of a house. It was the owner of the 
cave who had been abroad all day feeding his 
flock, as his custom was, in the mountains, and 
now drove them home in the evening from 
pasture. He threw down a pile of fire-wood, 
which he had been gathering against supper- 
time, before the mouth of the cave, which oc- 
casioned the crash they heard. The Grecians 
hid themselves in the remote parts of the cave, 
at sight of the uncouth monster. It was Poly- 
phemus, the largest and savagest of the Cy- 
clops, who boasted himself to be the son of 
Neptune. He looked more like a mountain 
crag than a man, and to his brutal body he 



had a brutish mind answerable. He drove his 
flock, all that gave milk, to the interior of the 
cave, but left the rams and the he-goats with- 
out. Then taking up a stone so massy that 
twenty oxen could not have drawn it, he placed 
it at the mouth of the cave, to defend the en- 
trance, and sat him down to milk his ewes and 
his goats ; which done, he lastly kindled a fire, 
and throwing his great eye round the cave (for 
the Cyclops have no more than one eye, and 
that placed in the midst of their forehead), by 
the glimmering light he discerned some of 
Ulysses' men. 

" Ho ! guests, what are you ? merchants or 
wandering thieves ?" he bellowed out in a voice 
which took from them all power of reply, it 
was so astounding. 

Only Ulysses summoned resolution to an- 
swer, that they came neither for plunder nor 
traffic, but were Grecians who had lost their 
way, returning from Troy ; which famous city, 
under the conduct of Agamemnon, the renown- 
ed son of Atreus, they had sacked, and laid level 
with the ground. Yet now they prostrated 
themselves humbly before his feet, whom they 
acknowledged to be mightier than they, and 
besought him that he would bestow the rites of 
hospitality upon them, for that Jove was the 
avenger of wrongs done to strangers, and 
would fiercely resent any injury which they 
might suffer. 

" Fool," said the Cyclop, " to come so far to 
preach to me the fear of the gods. "We Cy- 
clops care not for your Jove, whom you fable 
to be nursed by a goat, nor any of your blessed 
ones. We are stronger than they, and dare 
bid open battle to Jove himself, though you 
and all your fellows of the earth join with 
him." And he bade them tell him where 
their ship was, in which they came, and whe- 
ther they had any companions. But Ulysses, 
with a wise caution made answer, that they 
had no ship or companions, but were unfortu- 
nate men whom the sea, splitting their ship in 
pieces, had dashed upon his coast, and they 
alone had escaped. He replied nothing, but 
griping two of the nearest of them, as if they 
had been no more than children, he dashed 
their brains out against the earth, and (shock- 
ing to relate) tore in pieces their limbs, and 
devoured them, yet warm and trembling, mak- 
ing a lion's meal of them, lapping the blood : 
for the Cyclops are man-eaters, and esteem hu- 
man flesh to be a delicacy far above goat's or 
kid's ; though by reason of their abhorred 
customs few men approach their coast except 
some stragglers, or now and then a shipwrecked 
mariner. At a sight so horrid Ulysses and 
his men were like distracted people. He, 
when he had made an end of his wicked sup- 
per, drained a draught of goat's milk down 
his prodigious throat, and lay down and slept 
among his goats. Then Ulysses drew his 
sword, and half resolved to thrust it with all 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



his might in at the bosom of the sleeping mon- 
ster ; but wiser thoughts restrained him, else 
they had there without help all perished, for 
none but Polyphemus himself could have re- 
moved that mass of stone which he had placed 
to guard the entrance. So they were con- 
strained to abide all that night in fear. 

When day came the Cyclop awoke, and 
kindling a fire, made his breakfast of two other 
of his unfortunate prisoners, then milked his 
goats as he was accustomed, and pushing aside 
the vast stone, and shutting it again when he 
had done upon the prisoners, with as much 
ease as a man opens and shuts a quiver's lid, 
he let out his flock, and drove them before 
him with whistlings (as sharp as winds in 
storms) to the mountains. 

Then Ulysses, of whose strength or cunning 
the Cyclop seems to have had as little heed as 
of an infant's, being left alone, with the rem- 
nant of his men which the Cyclop had not de- 
voured, gave manifest proof how far manly 
wisdom excels brutish force. He chose a 
stake from among the wood which the Cyclop 
had piled up for firing, in length and thickness 
like a mast, which he sharpened and hardened 
in the fire, and selected four men, and in- 
structed them what they should do with this 
stake, and made them perfect in their parts. 

When the evening was come, the Cyclop 
drove home his sheep ; and as fortune direct- 
ed it, either of purpose, or that his memory 
was overruled by the gods to his hurt (as in 
the issue it proved), he drove the males of his 
flock, contrary to his custom, along with the 
dams into the pens. Then shutting-to the 
stone of the cave, he fell to his horrible sup- 
per. When he had despatched two more of 
the Grecians, Ulysses waxed bold with the 
contemplation of his project, and took a bowl 
of Greek wine, and merrily dared the Cyclop 
to drink. 

" Cyclop," he said, " take a bowl of wine from 
the hand of your guest : it may serve to digest 
the man's flesh that you have eaten, and show 
what drink our ship held before it went down. 
All I ask in recompense, if you find it good, is 
to be dismissed in a. whole skin. Truly you 
must look to have few visitors, if you observe 
this new custom of eating your guests." 

The brute took and drank, and vehemently 
enjoyed the taste of wine, which was new to 
him, and swilled again at the flagon, and in- 
treated for more, and prayed Ulysses to tell 
him his name, that he might bestow a gift upon 
the man who had given him such brave liquor. 
The Cyclops (he said) had grapes, but this rich 
juice (he swore) was simply divine. Again 
Ulysses plied him with the wine, and the fool 
drank it as fast as he poured out, and again he 
asked the name of his benefactor, which Ulys- 
ses cunningly dissembling, said, " My name is 
Noman : my kindred and friends in my own 
country call me Noman." "Then," said the 



Cyclop, K this is the kindness I will show thee, 
Noman : I will eat thee last of all thy friends." 
He had scarce expressed his savage kindness, 
when the fumes of the strong wine overcame 
him, and he reeled down upon the floor and 
sank into a dead sleep. 

Ulysses watched his time, while the monster 
lay insensible, and heartening up his men, they 
placed the sharp end of the stake in the fire 
till it was heated red-hot, and some god gave 
them a courage beyond that which they were 
used to have, and the four men with difficulty 
bored the sharp end of the huge stake, which 
they had heated red-hot, right into the eye of 
the drunken cannibal, and Ulysses helped to 
thrust it in with all his might, still further and 
further, with effort, as men bore with an auger, 
till the scalded blood gushed out, and the eye- 
ball smoked, and the strings of the eye crack- 
ed, as the burning rafter broke in it, and the 
eye hissed, as hot iron hisses when it is plunged 
into water. 

He waking, roared with the pain so loud 
that all the cavern broke into claps like thun- 
der. They fled, and dispersed into corners. 
He plucked the burning stake from his eye, 
and hurled the wood madly about the cave. 
Then he cried out with a mighty voice for his 
brethren the Cyclops, that dwelt hard by in 
caverns upon hills ; they hearing the terrible 
shout came flocking from all parts to inquire 
what ailed Polyphemus ? and what cause he 
had for making such horrid clamours in the 
night-time to break their sleeps ? if his fright 
proceeded from any mortal ? if strength or 
craft had given him his death's blow ? He 
made answer from within that Noman had 
hurt him, Noman had killed him, Noman was 
with him in the cave. They replied, " If no 
man has hurt thee, and no man is with thee, 
then thou art alone, and the evil that afflicts 
thee is from the hand of Heaven, which none 
can resist or help." So they left him and 
went their way, thinking that some disease 
troubled him. He, blind and ready to split 
with the anguish of the pain, went groaning 
up and down in the dark, to find the door- way, 
which when he found, he removed the stone, 
and sat in the threshold, feeling if he could 
lay hold on any man going out with the sheep, 
which (the day now breaking) were beginning 
to issue forth to their accustomed pastures. 
But Ulysses, whose first artifice in giving him- 
self that ambiguous name, had succeeded so 
well with the Cyclop, was not of a wit so gross 
to be caught by that palpable device. But 
casting about in his mind all the ways which 
he could contrive for escape (no less than all 
their lives depending on the success), at last he 
thought of this expedient. He made knots of 
the osier twigs upon which the Cyclop com- 
monly slept, with which he tied the fattest 
and fleeciest of the rams together, three in a 
rank, and under the belly of the middle ram 
B 2 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



he tied a man, and himself last, wrapping him- 
self fast with both his hands in the rich wool 
of one, the fairest of the flock. 

And now the sheep began to issue forth 
very fast, the males went first, the females un- 
milked stood by, bleating and requiring the 
hand of their shepherd in vain to milk them, 
their full bags sore with being unemptied, 
but he much sorer with the loss of sight. 
Still as the males passed, he felt the backs of 
those fleecy fools, never dreaming that they 
carried his enemies under their bellies : so 
they passed on till the last ram came loaded 
with his wool and Ulysses together. He stop- 
ped that ram and felt him, and had his hand 
once in the hair of Ulysses, yet knew it not, 
and he chid the ram for being last, and spoke 
to it as if it understood him, and asked it 
whether it did not wish that its master had 
his eye again, which that abominable Noman 
with his execrable rout had put out, when 
they had got him down with wine ; and he 
willed the ram to tell him whereabouts in the 
cave his enemy lurked, that he might dash his 
brains and strew them about, to ease his heart 
of that tormenting revenge which rankled in 
it. After a deal of such foolish talk to the 
beast, he let it go. 

When Ulysses found himself free, he let go 
his hold, and assisted in disengaging his friends. 
The rams which had befriended them they 
carried off with them to the ships, where their 
companions with tears in their eyes received 
them, as men escaped from death. They plied 
their oars, and set their sails, and when they 
were got as far off from shore as a voice would 
reach, Ulysses cried out to the Cyclop : " Cy- 
clop, thou shouldst not have so much abused 
thy monstrous strength, as to devour thy 
guests. Jove by my hands sends thee requital 
to pay thy savage inhumanity." The Cyclop 
heard, and came forth enraged, and in his an- 
ger he plucked a fragment of a rock, and threw 
it with blind fury at the ships : it narrowly 
escaped lighting upon the bark in which 
Ulysses sat, but with the fall it raised so fierce 
an ebb, as bore back the ship till it almost 
touched the shore. "Cyclop," said Ulysses, 
" if any ask thee who imposed on thee that un- 
sightly blemish in thine eye, say it was Ulysses, 
son of Laertes : the king of Ithaca am I called, 
the waster of cities." Then they crowded sail, 
and beat the old sea, and forth they went with 
a forward gale ; sad for fore-past losses, yet 
glad to have escaped at any rate ; till they 
came to the isle where iEolus reigned, who is 
god of the winds. 

Here Ulysses and his men were courteously 
received by the monarch, who showed him his 
twelve children which have rule over the 
twelve winds. A month they stayed and feast- 
ed with him, and at the end of the month he 
dismissed them with many presents, and gave 
to Ulysses at parting an ox's hide, in which 



were enclosed all the irinds : only he left abroad 
the western wind, to play upon their sails and 
waft them gently home to Ithaca. This bag, 
bound in a glittering silver band so close that 
no breath could escape, Ulysses hung up at the 
mast. His companions did not know its con- 
tents, but guessed that the monarch had given 
to him some treasures of gold or silver. 

Nine days they sailed smoothly, favoured by 
the western wind, and by the tenth they ap- 
proached so nigh as to discern lights kindled 
on the shores of their country earth : when by 
ill fortune, Ulysses, overcome with fatigue of 
watching the helm, fell asleep. The mariners 
seized the opportunity, and one of them said 
to the rest : " A fine time has this leader of 
ours : wherever he goes he is sure of presents, 
when we come away empty-handed ; and see, 
what king JEolus has given him, store no 
doubt of gold and silver." A word was enough 
to those covetous wretches, who quick as 
thought untied the bag, and instead of gold, 
out rushed with mighty noise all the winds. 
Ulysses with the noise awoke and saw their 
mistake, but too late, for the ship was driving 
with all the winds back far from Ithaca, far as 
to the island of iEolus from which they had 
parted, in one hour measuring back what in 
nine days they had scarcely tracked, and in 
sight of home too ! up he flew amazed, and 
raving doubted whether he should not fling 
himself into the sea for grief of his bitter dis- 
appointment. At last he hid himself under 
the hatches for shame. And scarce could he 
be prevailed upon, when he was told he was 
arrived again in the harbour of king iEolus, to 
go himself or send to that monarch for a second 
succour ; so much the disgrace of having misused 
his royal bounty (though it was the crime of 
his followers and not his own) weighed upon 
him : and when at last he went, and took a 
herald with him, and came where the god sat 
on his throne, feasting with his children, he 
would not thrust in among them at their meat, 
but set himself down like one unworthy in the 
threshold. 

Indignation seized JEolus, to behold him in 
that manner returned' ; and he said, " Ulysses, 
what has brought you back ? are you so soon 
tired of your country ? or did not our preseut 
please you ? we thought we had given you a 
kingly passport." Ulysses made answer, " My 
men have done this ill mischief to me : they 
did it while I slept." « Wretch," said ^olus, 
" avaunt, and quit our shores ! it fits not us to 
convoy men whom the gods hate, and will have 
perish." 

Forth they sailed, but with far different hopes 
than when they left the same harbour the first 
time with all the winds confined, only the west- 
wind suffered to play upon their sails to waft 
them in gentle murmurs to Ithaca. They were 
now the sport of every gale that blew, and 
despaired of ever seeing home more. Now 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



those covetous mariners were cured of their 
surfeit for gold, and would not have touched it 
if it had lain in untold heaps before them. 

Six days and nights they drove along, and 
on the seventh day they put in to Lamos, a 
port of the Lsestrygonians. So spacious this 
harbour was, that it held with ease all their 
fleet, which rode at anchor, safe from any 
storms, all but the ship in which Ulysses was 
embarked. He, as if prophetic of the mischance 
which followed, kept still without the harbour, 
making fast his bark to a rock at the land's 
point, which he climbed with purpose to survey 
the country. He saw a city with smoke ascend- 
ing from the roofs, but neither ploughs going, 
nor oxen yoked, nor any sign of agricultural 
works. Making choice of two men, he sent 
them to the city to explore what sort of inhabit- 
ants dwelt there. His messengers had not 
gone far before they met a damsel, of stature 
surpassing human, who was coming to draw 
water from a spring. They asked her who 
dwelt in that land. She made no reply, but 
led them in silence to her father's palace. He 
was a monarch, and named Antiphas. He and 
all his people were giants. When they entered 
the palace, a woman, the mother of the damsel, 
but far taller than she, rushed abroad and called 
for Antiphas. He came, and snatching up one of 
the two men, made as if he would devour him. 
The other fled. Antiphas raised a mighty 
shout, and instantly, this way and that, multi- 
tudes of gigantic people issued out at the gates, 
and making for the harbour, tore up huge 
pieces of the rocks, and flung them at the ships 
which lay there, all which they utterly over- 
whelmed and sank ; and the unfortunate bodies 
of men which floated, and which the sea did 
not devour, these cannibals thrust through with 
harpoons, like fishes, and bore them off to their 
dire feast. Ulysses with his single bark that 
had never entered the harbour escaped ; that 
bark which was now the only vessel left of all 
the gallant navy that had set sail with him 
from Troy. He pushed off from the shore, 
cheering the sad remnant of his men, whom 
horror at the sight of their countrymen's fate 
had almost turned to marble. 



CHAPTER II. 

The house of Circe.— Men changed into beasts.— The 
voyage to hell.— The banquet of the dead. 

On went the single ship till it came to the 
island of iEaea, where Circe the dreadful 
daughter of the Sun dwelt. She was deeply 
skilled in magic, a haughty beauty, and had 
hair like the Sun. The Sun was her parent, 
and begot her and her brother iEastes (such 
another as herself) upon Perse, daughter to 
Oceanus. 

Here a dispute arose among Ulysses' men, 



which of them should go ashore and explore 
the country ; for there was a necessity that 
some should go to procure water and provi- 
sions, their stock of both being nigh spent : but 
their hearts failed them when they called to 
mind the shocking fate of their fellows whom 
the Laestrygonians had eaten, and those which 
the foul Cyclop Polyphemus had crushed be- 
tween his jaws ; which moved them so tenderly 
in the recollection that they wept. But tears 
never yet supplied any man's wants ; this 
Ulysses knew full well, and dividing his men 
(all that were left) into two companies, at the 
head of one of which was himself, and at the 
head of the other Eurylochus, a man of tried 
courage, he cast lots which of them should go 
up into the country ; and the lot fell upon 
Eurylochus and his company, two-and-twenty in 
number ; who took their leave, with tears, of 
Ulysses and his men that staid, whose eyes 
wore the same wet badges of weak humanity, 
for they surely thought never to see these their 
companions again, but that, on every coast 
where they should come, they should find 
nothing but savages and cannibals. 

Eurylochus and his party proceeded up the 
country, till in a dale they descried the house 
of Circe, built of bright stone, by the road's 
side. Before her gate lay many beasts, as 
wolves, lions, leopards, which, by her art, of 
wild, she had rendered tame. These arose 
when they saw strangers, and ramped upon 
their hinder paws, andfawned upon Eurylochus 
and his men, who dreaded the effects of such 
monstrous kindness ; and staying at the gate 
they heard the enchantress within, sitting at 
her loom, singing such strains as suspended all 
mortal faculties, while she wove a web, subtle 
and glorious, and of texture inimitable on earth, 
as all the housewiferies of the deities are. 
Strains so ravishingly sweet, provoked even 
the sagest and prudentest heads among the 
party to knock and call at the gate. The 
shining gate the enchantress opened, and bad 
them come in and feast. They unwise followed, 
all but Eurylochus, who ( stayed without the 
gate, suspicious that some train was laid for 
them. Being entered, she placed them in chairs 
of state, and set before them meal and honey, 
and Smyrna wine; but mixed with baneful 
drugs of powerful enchantment. When they 
had eaten of these, and drunk of her cup, she 
touched them with her charming-rod, and 
straight they were transformed into swine, 
having the bodies of swine, the bristles, and 
snout, and grunting noise of that animal ; only 
they still retained the minds of men, which 
made them the more to lament their brutish 
transformation. Having changed them, she 
shut them up in her sty with many more whom 
her wicked sorceries had formerly changed, 
and gave them swine's food, mast, and acorns, 
and chesnuts, to eat. 

Eurylochus, who beheld nothing of these sad 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



changes from where he was stationed without 
the gate, only instead of his companions that 
entered (who he thought had all vanished by 
witchcraft) beheld a herd of swine, hurried 
back to the ship, to give an account of what he 
had seen : but so frighted and perplexed, that 
he could give no distinct report of anything, 
only he remembered a palace, and a woman 
singing at her work, and gates guarded by 
lions. But his companions, he said, were all 
vanished. 

Then Ulysses suspecting some foul witchcraft, 
snatched his sword and his bow, and com- 
manded Eurylochus instantly to lead him to 
the place. But Eurylochus fell down, and em- 
bracing his knees, besought him by the name 
of a man whom the gods had in their protec- 
tion, not to expose his safety, and the safety of 
them all, to certain destruction. 

" Do thou then stay, Eurylochus," answered 
Ulysses : " eat thou and drink in the ship in 
safety ; while I go alone upon this adventure : 
necessity, from whose law is no appeal, com- 
pels me." 

So saying he quitted the ship and went on 
shore, accompanied by none ; none had the 
hardihood to offer to partake that perilous ad- 
venture with him, so much they dreaded the 
enchantments of the witch. Singly he pursued 
his journey till he came to the shining gates 
which stood before her mansion : but when he 
essayed to put his foot over her threshold, he 
was suddenly stopt by the apparition of a young 
man, bearing a golden rod in his hand, who 
was the god Mercury. He held Ulysses by 
the wrist, to stay his entrance ; and " Whither 
wouldest thou go ?" he said, " O thou most 
erring of the sons of men ! knowest thou not that 
this is the house of great Circe, where she keeps 
thy friends in a loathsome sty, changed from 
the fair forms of men into the detestable and 
ugly shapes of swine ? art thou prepared to 
share their fate, from which nothing can ran- 
som thee ?" But neither his words, nor his 
coming from heaven could stop the daring foot 
of Ulysses, whom compassion for the misfortune 
of his friends had rendered careless of danger : 
which when the god perceived, he had pity to 
see valour so misplaced, and gave him the flower 
of the herb moly, which is sovereign against 
enchantments. The moly is a small unsightly 
root, its virtues but little known, and in low 
estimation ; the dull shepherd treads on it 
every day with his clouted shoes : but it bears 
a small white flower, which is medicinal against 
charms, blights, mildews, and damps. — " Take 
this in thy hand," said Mercury, " and with it 
boldly enter her gates : when she shall strike 
thee with her rod, thinking to change thee, as 
she has changed thy friends, boldly rush in 
upon her with thy sword, and extort from her 
the dreadful oath of the gods, that she will use 
no enchantments against thee : then force her 
to restore thy abused companions." He gave 



Ulysses the little white flower, and instructing 
him how to use it, vanished. 

When the god was departed, Ulysses with 
loud knockings beat at the gate of the palace. 
The shining gates were opened, as before, and 
great Circe with hospitable cheer invited in 
her guest. She placed him on a throne with 
more distinction than she had used to his fel- 
lows, she mingled wine in a costly bowl, and 
he drank of it, mixed with those poisonous 
drugs. When he had drunk, she struck him 
with her charming-rod, and " To your sty," she 
cried, " out, swine ; mingle with your com- 
panions." But those powerful words were not 
proof against the preservative which Mercury 
had given to Ulysses ; he remained unchanged, 
and as the god had directed him, boldly charged 
the witch with his sword, as if he meant to 
take her life : which when she saw, and per- 
ceived that her charms were weak against the 
antidote which Ulysses bore about him, she 
cried out and bent her knees beneath his sword, 
embracing his, and said, "Who or what manner 
of man art thou ? Never drank any man before 
thee of this cup, but he repented it in some 
brute's form. Thy shape remains unaltered 
as thy mind. Thou canst be none other than 
Ulysses, renowned above all the world for 
wisdom, whom the fates have long since decreed 
that I must love. This haughty bosom bends 
to thee. O Ithacan, a goddess woos thee to 
her bed." 

" Circe," he replied, " how canst thou treat 
of love or marriage with one whose friends thou 
hast turned into beasts ? and now offerest him 
thy hand in wedlock, only that thou mightest 
have him in thy power, to live the life of a 
beast with thee, naked, effeminate, subject to 
thy will, perhaps to be advanced in time to the 
honour of a place in thy sty. What pleasure 
canst thou promise, which may tempt the soul 
of a reasonable man ? thy meats, spiced with 
poison ; or thy wines, drugged with death ? 
Thou must swear to me, that thou wilt never 
attempt against me the treasons which thou 
hast practised upon my friends." The enchant- 
ress, won by the terror of his threats, or by 
the violence of that new love which she felt 
kindling in her veins for him, swore by Styx, 
the great oath of the gods, that she meditated 
no injury to him. Then Ulysses made show 
of gentler treatment, which gave her hopes of 
inspiring him with a passion equal to that 
which she felt. She called her handmaids, four 
that served her in chief, who were daughters 
to her silver fountains, to her sacred rivers, and 
to her consecrated woods, to deck her apart- 
ments, to spread rich carpets, and set out her 
silver tables with dishes of the purest gold, and 
meat as precious as that which the gods eat, 
to entertain her guest. One brought water to 
Avash his feet, and one brought wine to chase 
away, with a refreshing sweetness, the sorrows 
that had come of late so thick upon him, and 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



hurt his noble mind. They strewed perfumes 
on his head, and after he had bathed in a bath 
of the choicest aromatics, they brought him rich 
and costly apparel to put on. Then he was 
conducted to a throne of massy silver, and a 
regale, fit for Jove when he banquets, was 
placed before him. But the feast which Ulysses 
desired was to see his friends (the partners of 
his voyage) once more in the shapes of men ; 
and the food which could give him nourishment 
must be taken in at his eyes. Because he 
missed this sight, he sat melancholy and 
thoughtful, and would taste of none of the rich 
delicacies placed before him. "Which when 
Circe noted, she easily divined the cause of his 
sadness, and leaving the seat in which she sat 
throned, went to her sty, and let abroad his 
men, who came in like swine, and filled the 
ample hall, where Ulysses sat, with gruntings. 
Hardly had he time to let his sad eye run over 
their altered forms and brutal metamorphosis, 
when with an ointment which she smeared 
over them, suddenly their bristles fell off, and 
they started up in their own shapes men as 
before. They knew their leader again, and 
clung about him, with joy of their late resto- 
ration, and some shame for their late change ; 
and wept so loud, blubbering out their joy in 
broken accents, that the palace was filled with 
a sound of pleasing mourning, and the witch 
herself, great Circe, was not unmoved at 
the sight. To make her atonement complete, 
she sent for the remnant of Ulysses' men who 
stayed behind at the ship, giving up their great 
commander for lost ; who when they came, and 
saw him again alive, circled with their fellows, no 
expression can tell what joy they felt ; they 
even cried out with rapture, and to have seen 
their frantic expressions of mirth, a man might 
have supposed that they were just in sight of 
their country earth, the cliffs of rocky Ithaca. 
Only Eurylochus would hardly be persuaded 
to enter that palace of wonders, for he remem- 
bered with a kind of horror how his companions 
had vanished from his sight. 

Then great Circe spake, and gave order, that 
there should be no more sadness among them, 
nor remembering of past sufferings. For as 
yet they fared like men that are exiles from 
their country, and if a gleam of mirth shot 
among them, it was suddenly quenched with the 
thought of their helpless and homeless con- 
dition. Her kind persuasions wrought upon 
Ulysses and the rest, that they spent twelve 
months in all manner of delight with her in 
her palace. For Circe was a powerful magician 
and could command the moon from her sphere, 
or unroot the solid oak from its place to make 
it dance for their diversion, and by the help of 
her illusions she could vary the taste of plea- 
sures, and contrive delights, recreations, and 
jolly pastimes, to " fetch the day about from 
sun to sun, and rock the tedious year as in a 
delightful dream." 



At length Ulysses awoke from the trance of 
the faculties into which her charms had 
thrown him, and the thought of home returned 
with tenfold vigour to goad and sting him ; 
that home where he had left his virtuous wife 
Penelope, and his young son Telemachus. One 
day when Circe had been lavish of her caresses, 
and was in her kindest humour, he moved to her 
subtilely, and as it were afar off, the question of 
his home-return ; to which she answered firmly, 
" O Ulysses, it is not in my power to detain one 
whom the gods have destined to further trials. 
But leaving me, before you pursue your journey 
home, you must visit the house of Ades,or Death, 
to consult the shade of Tiresias, the Theban 
prophet ; to whom alone, of all the dead, Pro- 
serpine, queen of hell, has committed the 
secret of future events : it is he that must 
inform you whether you shall ever see again 
your wife and country." " Circe," he cried, 
" that is impossible : who shall steer my 
course to Pluto's kingdom ? Never ship had 
strength to make that voyage." " Seek no 
guide," she replied ; " but raise you your mast, 
and hoist your white sails, and sit in your ship 
in peace : the north wind shall waft you 
through the seas, till you shall cross the ex- 
panse of the ocean, and come to where grow 
the poplar groves, and willows pale, of Proser- 
pine : where Pyriphlegethon and Cocytus and 
Acheron mingle their waves. Cocytus is an 
arm of Styx, the forgetful river. Here dig a 
pit, and make it a cubit broad and a cubit 
long, and pour in milk, and honey, and wine, 
and the blood of a ram, and the blood of a 
black ewe, and turn away thy face while thou 
pourest in, and the dead shall come flocking to 
taste the milk and the blood ; but suffer none 
to approach thy offering till thou hast in- 
quired of Tiresias all which thou wishest to 
know." 

He did as great Circe had appointed. He 
raised his mast, and hoisted his white sails, and 
sat in his ship in peace. The north wind 
wafted him through the seas, till he crossed 
the ocean, and came to the sacred woods of 
Proserpine. He stood at the confluence of the 
three floods, and digged a pit, as she had given 
directions, and poured in his offering ; the 
blood of a ram, and the blood of a black ewe, 
milk, and honey, and wine ; and the dead 
came to his banquet : aged men, and women, 
and youths, and children who died in infancy. 
But none of them would he suffer to approach, 
and dip their thin lips in the | offering, till 
Tiresias was served, not though his own mother 
was among the number, whom now for the 
first time he knew to be dead, for he had left 
her living when he went to Troy, and she had 
died since his departure, and the tidings never 
reached him ; though it irked his soul to use 
constraint upon her, yet in compliance with 
the injunction of great Circe, he forced her to 
retire along with the other ghosts. Then 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



Tiresias, who bore a golden sceptre, came and 
lapped of the offering, and immediately he 
knew Ulysses, and began to prophecy : he 
denounced woe to Ulysses, woe, woe, and many suf- 
ferings, through the anger of Neptune for the putting 
out of the eye of the sea-god's son. Yet there was 
safety after suffering, if they could abstain from 
slaughtering the oxen of the Sun after they landed in 
the Triangular island. For Ulysses, the gods had 
destined him from a king to become a beggar, and to 
perish by his own guests, unless he slew those who knew 
him not. 

This prophecy, ambiguously delivered, was 
all that Tiresias was empowered to unfold, or 
else there was no longer place for him ; for 
now the souls of the other dead came flocking 
in such numbers, tumultuously demanding the 
blood, that freezing horror seized the limbs of 
the living Ulysses, to see so many, and all 
dead, and he the only one alive in that region. 
Now his mother came and lapped the blood 
without restraint from her son, and now she 
knew him to be her son, and inquired of him 
why he had come alive to their comfortless 
habitations. And she said, that affliction for 
Ulysses' long absence had preyed upon her 
spirits, and brought her to the grave. 

Ulysses' soul melted at her moving narration, 
and forgetting the state of the dead, and that 
the airy texture of disembodied spirits does 
not admit of the embraces of flesh and blood, 
he threw his arms about her to clasp her : 
the poor ghost melted from his embrace, 
and looking mournfully upon him vanished 
away. 

Then saw he other females. — Tyro, who when 
she lived was the paramour of Neptune, and 
by him had Pelias, and Neleus. Antiope, who 
bore two like sons to Jove, Amphion and 
Zethus, founders of Thebes. Alcmena, the 
mother of Hercules, with her fair daughter, 
afterwards her daughter-in-law, Megara. There 
also Ulysses saw Jocasta, the unfortunate 
mother and wife of (Edipus ; who ignorant of 
kin wedded with her son, and when she had 
discovered the unnatural alliance, for shame 
and grief hanged herself. He continued to 
drag a wretched life above the earth, haunted 
by the dreadful Furies. — There was Leda, 
the wife of Tyndarus, the mother of the 
beautiful Helen, and of the two brave brothers, 
Castor and Pollux, who obtained this grace 
from Jove, that being dead, they should enjoy 
life alternately, living in pleasant places under 
the earth. For Pollux had prayed that his 
brother Castor, who was subject to death as 
the son of Tyndarus, should partake of his own 
immortality, which he derived from an im- 
mortal sire ; this the Fates denied ; therefore 
Pollux was permitted to divide his immortality 
with his brother Castor, dying and living alter- 
nately. — There was Iphimedeia, who bore two 
sons to Neptune that were giants, Otus and 
Ephialtes : Earth in her prodigality never 



nourished bodies to such portentous size and 
beauty as these two children were of, except 
Orion. At nine years old they had imagina- 
tions of climbing to heaven to see what the 
gods were doing ; they thought to make stairs 
of mountains, and were for piling Ossa upon 
Olympus, and setting Pelion upon that, and had 
perhaps performed it, if they had lived till 
they were striplings ; but they were cut off by 
death in the infancy of their ambitious project. 
— Phsedra was there, and Procris, and Ariadne, 
mournful for Theseus's desertion, and Msera, 
and Clymene, and Eryphile, who preferred gold 
before wedlock faith. 

But now came a mournful ghost, that late 
was Agamemnon, son of Atreus, the mighty 
leader of all the host of Greece and their con- 
federate kings that warred against Troy. He 
came with the rest to sip a little of the blood 
at that uncomfortable banquet. Ulysses was 
moved with compassion to see him among 
them, and asked him what untimely fate had 
brought him there, if storms had overwhelmed 
him coming from Troy, or if he had perished 
in some mutiny by his own soldiers at a division 
of the prey. 

" By none of these," he replied, " did I come 
to my death ; but slain at a banquet to which 
I was invited by JEgisthus after my return 
home. He conspiring with my adulterous wife, 
they laid a scheme for my destruction, training 
me forth to a banquet as an ox goes to the 
slaughter, and there surrounding me they slew 
me with all my friends about me. 

u Clytemnestra, my wicked wife, forgetting 
the vows which she swore to me in wedlock, 
would not lend a hand to close my eyes in 
death. But nothing is so heaped with impieties 
as such a woman, who would kill her spouse 
that married her a maid. When I brought her 
home to my house a bride, I hoped in my heart 
that she would be loving to me and to my 
children. Now her black treacheries have cast 
a foul aspersion on her whole sex. Blest hus- 
bands will have their loving wives in suspicion 
for her bad deeds." 

" Alas !" said Ulysses, " there seems to be a 
fatality in your royal house of Atreus, and that 
they are hated of Jove for their wives. For 
Helen's sake, your brother Menelaus's wife, 
what multitudes fell in the wars of Troy !" 

Agamemnon replied, " For this cause be not 
thou more kind than wise to any woman. 
Let not thy words express to her at any time 
all that is in thy mind, keep still some secrets 
to thyself. But thou by any bloody contriv- 
ances of thy wife never needst fear to fall. 
Exceeding wise she is, and to her wisdom she 
has a goodness as eminent ; Icarius's daughter, 
Penelope the chaste : we left her a young 
bride when we parted from our wives to go to 
the wars, her first child suckling at her breast, 
the young Telemachus, whom you shall see 
grown up to manhood on your return, and he 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



9 



shall greet his father with befitting welcomes. 
My Orestes, my dear son, I shall never see 
again. His mother has deprived his father of 
the sight of him, and perhaps will slay him as 
she slew his sire. It is now no world to trust 
a woman in. — But what says fame ? is my son 
yet alive ? lives he in Orchomen, or in Pylus, 
or is he resident in Sparta, in his uncle's 
court ? as yet, I see,, divine Orestes is not here 
with me." 

To this Ulysses replied that he had received 
no certain tidings where Orestes abode, only 
some uncertain rumours which he could not 
report for truth. 

While they held this sad conference, with 
kind tears striving to render unkind fortunes 
more palatable, the soul of great Achilles 
joined them. " What desperate adventure 
has brought Ulysses to these regions," said 
Achilles, " to see the end of dead men, and 
their foolish shades V ' 

Ulysses answered him, that he had come to 
consult Tiresias respecting his voyage home. 
" But thou, O son of Thetis," said he, " why dost 
thou disparage the state of the dead ? seeing 
that as alive thou didst surpass all men in glory, 
thou must needs retain thy pre-eminence 
here below : so great Achilles triumphs over 
death." 

But Achilles made reply, that he had much 
rather be a peasant-slave upon the earth, than 
reign over all the dead. So much did the 
inactivity and slothful condition of that state 
displease his unquenchable and restless spirit. 
Only he inquired of Ulysses if his father Peleus 
were living, and how his son Neoptolemus 
conducted himself. 

Of Peleus Ulysses could tell him nothing ; 
but of Neoptolemus he thus bore witness : 
" From Scyros I convoyed your son by sea to 
the Greeks ; where I can speak of him, for I 
knew him. He was chief in council, and in 
the field. When any question was proposed, 
so quick was his conceit in the forward appre- 
hension of any case, that he ever spoke first, 
and was heard with more attention than the 
older heads. Only myself and aged Nestor 
could compare with him in giving advice. In 
battle I cannot speak his praise, unless I 
could count all that fell by his sword. I will 
only mention one instance of his manhood. 
When we sat hid in the belly of the wooden 
horse, in the ambush which deceived the 
Trojans to their destruction, I, who had the 
management of that stratagem, still shifted my 
place from side to side to note the behaviour 
of our men. In some I marked their hearts 
trembling, through all the pains which they 
took to appear valiant, and in others tears, that 
in spite of manly courage would gush forth. 
And to say truth, it was an adventure of high 
enterprise, and as perilous a stake as was ever 
played in war's game. But in him I could not 
observe the least sign of weakness, no tears 



nor tremblings, but his hand still on his good 
sword, and ever urging me to set open the 
machine and let us out before the time was 
come for doing it ; and when we sallied out he 
was still first in that fierce destruction and 
bloody midnight desolation of king Priam's 
city." 

This made the soul of Achilles to tread a 
swifter pace, with high-raised feet, as he 
vanished away, for the joy which he took in 
his son being applauded by Ulysses. 

A sad shade stalked by, which Ulysses knew 
to be the ghost of Ajax, his opponent, when 
living, in that famous dispute about the right 
of succeeding to the arms of the deceased 
Achilles. They being adjudged by the Greeks 
to Ulysses, as the prize of wisdom above bodily 
strength, the noble Ajax in despite went mad, 
and slew himself. The sight of his rival 
turned to a shade by his dispute, so subdued 
the passion of emulation in Ulysses, that for 
his sake he wished that judgment in that con- 
troversy had been given against himself, rather 
than so illustrious a chief should have perished 
for the desire of those arms, which his prowess 
(second only to Achilles in fight) so eminently 
had deserved. "Ajax," he cried, "all the 
Greeks mourn for thee as much as they 
lamented for Achilles. Let not thy wrath 
burn for ever, great son of Telamon. Ulysses 
seeks peace with thee, and will make any 
atonement to thee that can appease thy hurt 
spirit." But the shade stalked on, and would 
not exchange a word with Ulysses, though he 
prayed it with many tears and many earnest 
entreaties. "He might have spoken to me," 
said Ulysses, " since I spoke to him ; but I see 
the resentments of the dead are eternal." 

Then Ulysses saw a throne on which was 
placed a judge distributing sentence. He that 
sat on the throne was Minos, and he was 
dealing out just judgments to the dead. He 
it is that assigns them their place in bliss or 
woe. 

Then came by a thundering ghost, the large- 
limbed Orion, the mighty hunter, who was 
hunting there the ghosts of the beasts which 
he had slaughtered in desert hills upon the 
earth. For the dead delight in the occupations 
which pleased them in the time of their living 
upon the earth. 

There was Tityus suffering eternal pains 
because he had sought to violate the honour of 
Latona as she passed from Pytho into Pano- 
peus. Two vultures sat perpetually preying 
upon his liver with their crooked beaks ; 
which as fast as they devoured, is for ever re- 
newed ; nor can he fray them away with his 
great hands. 

There was Tantalus, plagued for his great 
sins, standing up to the chin in water, which 
he can never taste, but still as he bows his 
head, thinking to quench his burning thirst, 
instead of water he licks up unsavoury dust. 



10 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



All fruits pleasant to the sight, and of delicious 
flavour, hang in ripe clusters about his head, 
seeming as though they offered themselves to 
be plucked by him ; but when he reaches out 
his hand, some wind carries them far out of 
his sight into the clouds : so he is starved in 
the midst of plenty by the righteous doom of 
Jove, in memory of that inhuman banquet at 
which the sun turned pale, when the unnatural 
father served up the limbs of his little son in 
a dish, as meat for his divine guests. 

There was Sisyphus, that sees no end to his 
labours. His punishment is, to be for ever 
rolling up a vast stone to the top of a moun- 
tain, which when it gets to the top, falls down 
with a crushing weight, and all his work is to 
be begun again. He was bathed all over in 
sweat, that reeked out a smoke which covered 
his head like a mist. His crime had been the 
revealing of state secrets. 

There Ulysses saw Hercules : not that Her- 
cules who enjoys immortal life in heaven 
among the gods, and is married to Hebe or 
Youth ; but his shadow which remains below. 
About him the dead flocked as thick as bats, 
hovering around, and cuffing at his head : he 
stands with his dreadful bow, ever in the act 
to shoot. 

There also might Ulysses have seen and 
spoken with the shades of Theseus, and Piri- 
thous, and the old heroes : but he had con- 
versed enough with horrors : therefore cover- 
ing his face with his hands, that he might see 
no more spectres, he resumed his seat in his 
ship, and pushed off. The bark moved of 
itself without the help of any oar, and soon 
brought him out of the regions of death into 
the cheerful quarters of the living, and to the 
island of iEsea, whence he had set forth. 



CHAPTER III. 

The song of the Sirens. — Scylla and Charybdis.— The 
oxen of the Sun.— The judgment.— The crew killed by 
lightning. 

" Unhappy man, who at thy birth wast 
appointed twice to die ! others shall die once ; 
but thou, besides that death that remains for 
thee, common to all men, hast in thy life-time 
visited the shades of death. Thee Scylla, thee 
Charybdis, expect. Thee the deathful Sirens 
lie in wait for, that taint the minds of whoever 
listen to them with their sweet singing. "Who- 
soever shall but hear the call of any Siren, he 
will so despise both wife and children through 
their sorceries, that the stream of his affection 
never again shall set homewards, nor shall he 
take joy in wife or children thereafter, or they 
in him." 

"With these prophetic greetings great Circe 
met Ulysses on his return. He besought her 
to instruct him in the nature of the Sirens, 



and by what method their baneful allurements 
were to be resisted. 

" They are sisters three," she replied, u that 
sit in a mead (by which your ship must needs 
pass) circled with dead men's bones. These 
are the bones of men whom they have slain, 
after with fawning invitements they have 
enticed them into their fen. Yet such is the 
celestial harmony of their voice accompanying 
the persuasive magic of their words, that 
knowing this, you shall not be able to with- 
stand their enticements. Therefore when you 
are to sail by them, you shall stop the ears of 
your companions with wax, that they may hear 
no note of that dangerous music ; but for 
yourself, that you may hear, and yet live, give 
them strict command to bind you hand and 
foot to the mast, and in no case to set you free, 
till you are out of the danger of the tempta- 
tion, though you should entreat it, and implore 
it ever so much, but to bind you rather the 
more for your requesting to be loosed. So shall 
you escape that snare." 

Ulysses then prayed her that she would in- 
form him what Scylla and Charybdis were, which 
she had taught him by name to fear. She 
replied : " Sailing from iEsea to Trinacria, you 
must pass at an equal distance between two 
fatal rocks. Incline never so little either to 
the one side or the other, and your ship must 
meet with certain destruction. No vessel ever 
yet tried that pass without being lost, but the 
Argo, which owed her safety to the sacred 
freight she bore, the fleece of the golden- 
backed ram, which could not perish. The 
biggest of these rocks which you shall come 
to, Scylla hath in charge. There in a deep 
whirlpool at the foot of the rock the abhorred 
monster shrouds her face ; who if she were to 
show her full form, no eye of man or god could 
endure the sight : thence she stretches out all 
her six long necks peering and diving to suck 
up fish, dolphins, dogfish, and whales, whole 
ships, and their men, whatever comes within 
her raging gulf. The other rock is lesser, and 
of less ominous aspect ; but there dreadful 
Charybdis sits, supping the black deeps. 
Thrice a day she drinks her pits dry, and 
thrice a day again she belches them all up : 
but when she is drinking, come not nigh, for 
being once caught, the force of Neptune cannot 
redeem you from her swallow. Better trust 
to Scylla, for she will but have for her six 
necks six men : Charybdis in her insatiate 
draught will ask all." 

Then Ulysses inquired, in case he should 
escape Charybdis, whether he might not assail 
that other monster with his sword : to which 
she replied that he must not think that he had 
an enemy subject to death, or wounds, to con- 
tend with : for Scylla could never die. There- 
fore, his best safety was in flight, and to invoke 
none of the gods but Cratis, who is Scylla's 
mother, and might perhaps forbid her daughter 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



11 



to devour them. For his conduct after he 
arrived at Trinacria she referred him to the 
admonitions which had been given him by 
Tiresias. 

Ulysses having communicated her instruc- 
tions, as far as related to the Sirens, to his 
companions, who had not been present at that 
interview ; but concealing from them the rest, 
as he had done the terrible predictions of 
Tiresias, that they might not be deterred by 
fear from pursuing their voyage : the time for 
departure being come, they set their sails, and 
took a final leave of great Circe ; who by her 
art calmed the heavens, and gave them smooth 
seas, and a right fore wind (the seaman's friend) 
to bear them on their way to Ithaca. 

They had not sailed past a hundred leagues 
before the breeze which Circe had lent them 
suddenly stopped. It was stricken dead. All 
the sea lay in prostrate slumber. Not a gasp 
of air could be felt. The ship stood still. 
Ulysses guessed that the island of the Sirens 
was not far off, and that they had charmed the 
air so with their devilish singing. Therefore 
he made him cakes of wax, as Circe had in- 
structed him, and stopped the ears of his men 
with them : then causing himself to be bound 
hand and foot, he commanded the rowers to 
ply their oars and row as fast as speed could 
carry them past that fatal shore. They soon 
came within sight of the Sirens, who sang in 
Ulysses' hearing : 

Come here, thou, worthy of a world of praise, 
That dost so high the Grecian glory raise ; 
Ulysses ! stay thy ship ; and that song hear 
That none past ever, but it bent his ear, 
But left him ravish'd, and instructed more 
By us, than any, ever heard before. 
For we know all things, whatsoever were 
In wide Troy labour'd : whatsoever there 
The Grecians and the Trojans both sustain'd, 
By those high issues that the gods ordai^d : 
And whatsoever all the earth can show 
To inform a knowledge of desert, we know. 

These were the words, but the celestial 
harmony of the voices which sang them no 
tongue can describe : it took the ear of Ulysses 
with ravishment. He would have broke his 
bonds to rush after them ; and threatened, 
wept, sued, entreated, commanded, crying out 
with tears and passionate imprecations, conjur- 
ing his men by all the ties of perils past which 
they had endured in common, by fellowship 
and love, and the authority which he retained 
among them, to let him loose ; but at no rate 
would they obey him. And still the Sirens 
sang. Ulysses made signs, motions, gestures, 
promising mountains of gold if they would set 
him free ; but their oars only moved faster. 
And still the Sirens sung. And still the more 
he adjured them to set him free, the faster 
with cords and ropes they bound him ; till they 
were quite out of hearing of the Sirens' notes, 
whose effect great Circe had so truly predicted. 



And well she might speak of them, for often 
she had joined her own enchanting voice to 
theirs, while she has sat in the flowery meads, 
mingled with the Sirens and the Water 
Nymphs, gathering their potent herbs and 
drugs of magic quality : their singing alto- 
gether has made the gods stoop, and " heaven 
drowsy with the harmony." 

Escaped that peril, they had not sailed yet 
a hundred leagues further, when they heard 
a roar afar off, which Ulysses knew to be the 
barking of Scylla's dogs, which surround her 
waist, and bark incessantly. Coming nearer 
they beheld a smoke ascend, with a horrid 
murmur, which arose from that other whirl- 
pool, to which they made nigher approaches 
than to Scylla. Through the furious eddy, 
which is in that place, the ship stood still as a 
stone, for there was no man to lend his hand 
to an oar, the dismal roar of Scylla's dogs at a 
distance, and the nearer clamours of Charybdis, 
where everything made an echo, quite taking 
from them the power of exertion. Ulysses 
went up and down encouraging his men, one 
by one, giving them good words, telling them 
that they were in greater perils when they 
were blocked up in the Cyclop's cave, yet, 
Heaven assisting his counsels, he had delivered 
them out of that extremity. That he could 
not believe but they remembered it ; and 
wished them to give the same trust to the 
same care which he had now for their welfare. 
That they must exert all the strength and wit 
which they had, and try if Jove would not 
grant them an escape even out of this peril. 
In particular he cheered up the pilot who sat 
at the helm, and told him that he must show 
more firmness than other men, as he had more 
trust committed to him, and had the sole 
management by his skill of the vessel in which 
all their safeties were embarked. That a rock 
lay hid within those boiling whirlpools which 
he saw, on the outside of which he must steer, 
if he would avoid his own destruction, and the 
destruction of them all. 

They heard him, and like men took to the 
oars ; but little knew what opposite danger, in 
shunning that rock, they must be thrown upon. 
For Ulysses had concealed from them the 
wounds, never to be healed, which Scylla was 
to open : their terror would else have robbed 
them all of all care to steer, or move an oar, 
and have made them hide under the hatches, 
for fear of seeing her, where he and they must 
have died an idle death. But even then he 
forgot the precautions which Circe had given 
him to prevent harm to his person ; who had 
willed him not to arm, or show himself once 
to Scylla : but disdaining not to venture life 
for his brave companions, he could not con- 
tain, but armed in all points, and taking a 
lance in either hand, he went up to the fore 
deck, and looked when Scylla would appear. 

She did not show herself as yet, and still the 



12 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



vessel steered closer by her rock, as it sought 
to shun that ' other more dreaded : for they 
saw how horribly Cbarybdis's black throat 
drew into her all the whirling deep, which she 
disgorged again, that all about her boiled like 
a kettle, and the rock roared with troubled 
waters ; which when she supped in again, all 
the bottom turned up, and disclosed far under 
shore the swart sands naked, whose whole 
stern sight frayed the startled blood from their 
faces, and made Ulysses turn his to view the 
wonder of whirlpools. Which when Scylla 
saw, from out her black den, she darted out 
her six long necks, and swoopt up as many of 
his friends : whose cries Ulysses heard, and 
saw them too late, with their heels turned up, 
and their hands thrown to him for succour, 
who had been their help in all extremities, but 
could not deliver them now ; and he heard 
them shriek out, as she tore them, and to the 
last they continued to throw their hands out 
to him for sweet life. In all his sufferings 
he never had beheld a sight so full of mise- 
ries. 

Escaped from Scylla and Charybdis, but 
with a diminished crew, Ulysses and the sad 
remains of his followers reached the Trina- 
crian shore. Here landing, he beheld oxen 
grazing of such surpassing size and beauty, 
that both from them, and from the shape of 
the island (having three promontories jutting 
into the sea) he judged rightly that he was 
come to the Triangular island, and the oxen 
of the Sun, of which Tiresias had forewarned 
him. 

So great was his terror lest through his own 
fault, or that of his men, any violence or pro- 
fanation should be offered to the holy oxen, 
that even then, tired as they were with the 
perils and fatigues of the day past, and unable 
to stir an oar, or use any exertion, and though 
night was fast coming on, he would have had 
them re-embark immediately, and make the 
best of their way from that dangerous station ; 
but his men with one voice resolutely opposed 
it, and even the too cautious Eurylochus him- 
self withstood the proposal ; so much did the 
temptation of a little ease and refreshment 
(ease tenfold sweet after such labours) prevail 
over the sagest counsels, and the apprehension 
of certain evil outweigh the prospect of con- 
tingent danger. They expostulated, that the 
nerves of Ulysses seemed to be made of steel, 
and his limbs not liable to lassitude like other 
men's ; that waking or sleeping seemed indif- 
ferent to him ; but that they were men, not gods, 
and felt the common appetites for food and 
sleep. That in the night-time all the winds 
most destructive to ships are generated. That 
black night still required to be served with 
meat, and sleep, and quiet havens, and ease. 
That the best sacrifice to the sea was in the 
morning. "With such sailor-like sayings and 
mutinous arguments, which the majority have 



always ready to justify disobedience to their 
betters, they forced Ulysses to comply with 
their requisition, and against his will to take 
up his night-quarters on shore. But he first 
exacted from them an oath that they would 
neither maim nor kill any of the cattle which 
they saw grazing, but content themselves with 
such food as Circe had stowed their vessel 
with when they parted from iEaea. This they 
man by man severally promised, imprecating 
the heaviest curses on whoever should break 
it ; and mooring their bark within a creek, 
they went to supper, contenting themselves 
that night with such food as Circe had given 
them, not without many sad thoughts of their 
friends whom Scylla had devoured, the grief 
of which kept them great part of the night 
waking. 

In the morning Ulysses urged them again to 
a religious observance of the oath that they had 
sworn, not in any case to attempt the blood of 
those fair herds which they saw grazing, but 
to content themselves with the ship's food ; for 
the god who owned those cattle sees and hears 
all. 

They faithfully obeyed, and remained in 
that good mind for a month, during which 
they were confined to that station by contrary 
winds, till all the wine and the bread Avas 
gone, which they had brought with them. 
When their victuals were gone, necessity 
compelled them to stray in quest of whatever 
fish or fowl they could snare, which that coast 
did not yield in any great abundance. Then 
Ulysses prayed to all the gods that dwelt in 
bountiful heaven, that they would be pleased 
to yield them some means to stay their hunger 
without having recourse to profane and forbid- 
den violations : but the ears of heaven seemed 
to be shut, or some god incensed plotted his 
ruin ; for at mid-day, when he should chiefly 
have been vigilant and watchful to prevent 
mischief, a deep sleep fell upon the eyes of 
Ulysses, during which he lay totally insensible 
of all that passed in the world, and what his 
friends or what his enemies might do, for his 
welfare or destruction. Then Eurylochus took 
his advantage. He was the man of most au- 
thority with them after Ulysses. He repre- 
sented to them all the misery of their condi- 
tion ; how that every death is hateful and 
grievous to mortality, but that of all deaths fa- 
mine is attended with the most painful, loath- 
some, and humiliating circumstances ; that the 
subsistence which they could hope to draw 
from fowling or fishing was too precarious to 
be depended upon ; that there did not seem to 
be any chance of the winds changing to favour 
their escape, but that they must inevitably stay 
there and perish, if they let an irrational su- 
perstition deter them from the means which 
nature offered to their hands ; that Ulysses 
might be deceived in his belief that these oxen 
had any sacred qualities above other oxen ; 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



13 



and even admitting that they were the pro- 
perty of the god of the Sun, as he said they 
were, the Sun did neither eat nor drink, and 
the gods were best served not by a scrupulous 
conscience, but by a thankful heart, which 
took freely what they as freely offered : with 
these and such like persuasions he prevailed 
on his half-famished and half-mutinous com- 
panions, to begin the impious violation of their 
oath by the slaughter of seven of the fairest of 
these oxen which were grazing. Part they 
roasted and ate, and part they offered in sacri- 
fice to the gods, particularly to Apollo, god of 
the Sun, vowing to build a temple to his god- 
head, when they should arrive in Ithaca, and 
deck it with magnificent and numerous gifts : 
vain men ! and superstition worse than that 
which they so lately derided ! to imagine that 
prospective penitence can excuse a present 
violation of duty, and that the pure natures of 
the heavenly powers will admit of compromise 
or dispensation for sin. 

But to their feast they fell, dividing the 
roasted portions of the flesh, savoury and plea- 
sant meat to them, but a sad sight to the eyes, 
and a savour of death in the nostrils, of the 
waking Ulysses ; who just woke in time to 
witness, but not soon enough to prevent, their 
rash and sacrilegious banquet. He had scarce 
time to ask what great mischief was this which 
they had done unto him ; when behold, a pro- 
digy ! the ox-hides which they had stripped 
began to creep, as if they had life ; and the 
roasted flesh bellowed as the ox used to do 
when he was living. The hair of Ulysses stood 
up an end with affright at these omens ; but 
his companions, like men whom the gods had 
infatuated to their destruction, persisted in 
their horrible banquet. 

The Sun from his burning chariot saw how 
Ulysses' men had slain his oxen, and he cried 
to his father Jove, " Revenge me upon these 
impious men who have slain my oxen, which it 
did me good to look upon when I walked my 
heavenly round. In all my daily course I 
never saw such bright and beautiful creatures 
as those my oxen were." The father promised 
that ample retribution should be taken of 
those accursed men : which was fulfilled shortly 
after, when they took their leaves of the fatal 
island. 

Six days they feasted in spite of the signs of 
heaven, and on the seventh, the wind changing, 
they set their sails and left the island ; and 
their hearts were cheerful with the banquets 
they had held ; all but the heart of Ulysses, 
which sank within him, as with wet eyes he 
beheld his friends, and gave them for lost, as 
men devoted to divine vengeance. "Which 
soon overtook them : for they had not gone 
many leagues before a dreadful tempest arose, 
which burst their cables ; down came their 
mast, crushing the skull of the pilot in its fall ; 
off he fell from the stern into the water, and 



the bark wanting his management drove along at 
the wind's mercy ; thunders roared, and terrible 
lightnings of Jove came down : first a bolt 
struck Eurylochus, then another, and then 
another, till all the crew were killed, and their 
bodies swam about like sea-mews ; and the 
ship was split in pieces : only Ulysses sur- 
vived ; and he had no hope of safety but in ty- 
ing himself to the mast, where he sat riding 
upon the waves, like one that in no extremity 
would yield to fortune. Nine days was he float- 
ing about with all the motions of the sea, with 
no other support than the slender mast under 
him, till the tenth night cast him, all spent and 
weary with toil, upon the friendly shores of the 
island Ogygia. 



CHAPTER IV. 

The island of Calypso.— Immortality refused. 

Henceforth the adventures of the single 
Ulysses must be pursued. Of all those faith- 
ful partakers of his toil, who with him left 
Asia, laden with the spoils of Troy, now not 
one remains, but all a prey to the remorseless 
waves, and food for some great fish : their gal- 
lant navy reduced to one ship, and that finally 
swallowed up and lost. Where now are all 
their anxious thoughts of home ? that perse- 
verance with which they went through the 
severest sufferings and the hardest labours to 
which poor seafarers were ever exposed, that 
their toils at last might be crowned with the 
sight of their native shores and wives at Ithaca ! 
— Ulysses is now in the isle Ogygia ; called the 
Delightful Island. The poor shipwrecked 
chief, the slave of all the elements, is once 
again raised by the caprice of fortune into a 
shadow of prosperity. He that was cast naked 
upon the shore, bereft of all his companions, 
has now a goddess to attend upon him, and his 
companions are the nymphs which never die. — 
Who has not heard of Calypso ? her grove 
crowned with alders and poplars ? her grotto, 
against which the luxuriant vine laid forth his 
purple grapes ? her ever new delights, crystal 
fountains, running brooks, meadows flowering 
with sweet balm-gentle and with violet : blue 
violets which like veins enamelled the smooth 
breasts of each fragrant mead ! It were use- 
less to describe over again what has been so 
well told already : or to relate those soft arts 
of courtship which the goddess used to detain 
Ulysses ; the same in kind which she after- 
wards practised upon his less wary son, whom 
Minerva, in the shape of Mentor, hardly pre- 
served from her snares, when they came to the 
Delightful Island together in search of the 
scarce departed Ulysses. 

A memorable example of married love, and 
a worthy instance how dear to every good man 
his country is, was exhibited by Ulysses. If 



14 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



Circe loved him sincerely, Calypso loves him 
with tenfold more warmth and passion : she 
can deny him nothing but his departure ; she 
offers him everything, even to a participation 
of her immortality : if he will stay and share 
in her pleasures, he shall never die. But death 
with glory has greater charms for a mind heroic, 
than a life that shall never die, with shame ; 
and when he pledged his vows to his Penelope, 
he reserved no stipulation that he would for- 
sake her whenever a goddess should think him 
worthy of her bed, but they had sworn to live 
and grow old together : and he would not 
survive her if he could, nor meanly share in 
immortality itself, from which she was excluded. 

These thoughts kept him pensive and me- 
lancholy in the midst of pleasure. His heart 
was on the seas, making voyages to Ithaca. 
Twelve months had worn away, when Minerva 
from heaven saw her favourite, how he sat still 
pining on the sea-shores (his daily custom), 
wishing for a ship to carry him home. She 
(who is wisdom herself) was indignant that so 
wise and brave a man as Ulysses should be 
held ineffeminate bondage by an unworthy god- 
dess : and at her request, her father Jove or- 
dered Mercury to go down to the earth to 
command Calypso to dismiss her guest. The 
divine messenger tied fast to his feet his wing- 
ed shoes, which bear him over land and seas, 
and took in his hand his golden rod, the en- 
sign of his authority. Then wheeling in many 
an airy round, he stayed not till he alighted on 
the firm top of the mountain Pieria : thence 
he fetched a second circuit over the seas, kiss- 
ing the waves in his flight with his feet, as 
light as any sea-mew fishing dips her wings, 
till he touched the isle Ogygia, and soared up 
from the blue sea to the grotto of the goddess, 
to whom his errand was ordained. 

His message struck a horror, checked by love, 
through all the faculties of Calypso. She re- 
plied to it, incensed : " You gods are insatiate, 
past all that live, in all things which you affect ; 
which makes you so envious and grudging. It 
afflicts you to the heart, when any goddess 
seeks the love of a mortal man in marriage, 
though you yourselves without scruple link 
yourselves to women of the earth. So it fared 
with you, when the delicious-fingered Morning 
shared Orion's bed ; you could never satisfy your 
hate and your jealousy, till you had incensed 
the chastity-loving dame, Diana, who leads the 
precise life, to come upon him by stealth in 
Ortygia, and pierce him through with her 
arrows. And when rich-haired Ceres gave 
the reins to her affections, and took Iasion 
(well worthy) to her arms, the secret was not 
so cunningly kept but Jove had soon notice of 
it, and the poor mortal paid for his felicity with 
death, struck through with lightnings. And 
now you envy me the possession of a wretched 
man, whom tempests have cast upon my shores, 
making him lawfully mine ; whose ship Jove 



rent in pieces with his hot thunderbolts, killing 
all his friends. Him I have preserved, loved, 
nourished, made him mine by protection, my 
creature, by every tie of gratitude, mine ; have 
vowed to make him deathless like myself ; him 
you will take from me. But I know your 
power, and that it is vain for me to resist. Tell 
your king that I obey his mandates." 

With an ill grace Calypso promised to fulfil 
the commands of Jove ; and Mercury depart- 
ing, she went to find Ulysses, where he sat 
outside the grotto, not knowing of the heavenly 
message, drowned in discontent, not seeing any 
human probability of his ever returning home. 

She said to him : " Unhappy man, no longer 
afflict yourself with pining after your country, 
but build you a ship, with which you may 
return home ; since it is the will of the gods : 
who doubtless as they are greater in power 
than I, are greater in skill, and best can tell 
what is fittest for man. But I call the gods, 
and my inward conscience, to witness, that I 
had no thought but what stood with thy safety, 
nor would have done or counselled anything 
against thy good. I persuaded thee to nothing 
which I should not have followed myself in thy 
extremity : for my mind is innocent and simple. 
O, if thou knewest what dreadful sufferings 
thou must yet endure, before ever thou reachest 
thy native land, thou wouldest not esteem so 
hardly of a goddess's offer to share her immor- 
tality with thee ; nor for afew years' enjoyment 
of a perishing Penelope, refuse an imperishable 
and never-dying life with Calypso." 

He replied : " Ever-honoured, great Calypso, 
let it not displease thee, that I a mortal man 
desire to see and converse again with a wife 
that is mortal : human objects are best fitted 
to human infirmities. I well know how far 
in wisdom, in feature, in stature, proportion, 
beauty, in all the gifts of the mind, thou ex- 
ceedest my Penelope : she a mortal and subject 
to decay ; thou immortal, ever growing, yet 
never old : yet in her sight all my desires ter- 
minate, all my wishes ; in the sight of her, and 
of my country earth. If any god, envious of 
my return, shall lay his dreadful hand upon me 
as I pass the seas, I submit : for the same 
powers have given me a mind not to sink 
under oppression. In wars and waves my 
sufferings have not been small." 

She heard his pleaded reasons, and of force 
she must assent ; so to her nymphs she gave 
in charge from her sacred woods to cut down 
timber, to make Ulysses a ship. They obeyed, 
though in a work unsuitable to their soft 
fingers, yet to obedience no sacrifice is hard : 
and Ulysses busily bestirred himself, labouring 
far more hard than they, as was fitting, till 
twenty tall trees, driest and fittest for timber, 
were felled. Then like a skilful shipwright, 
he fell to joining the planks, using the plane, 
the axe, and the auger, with such expedition, 
that in four days' time a ship was made, com- 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



plete with all her decks, hatches, sideboards, 
yards. Calypso added linen for the sails, and 
tackling ; and when she was finished, she was 
a goodly vessel for a man to sail in alone, or in 
company over the wide seas. By the fifth 
morning she was launched ; and Ulysses, fur- 
nished with store of provisions, rich garments, 
and gold and silver, given him by Calypso, 
took a last leave of her, and of her nymphs, 
and of the isle Ogygia which had so befriended 
him. 



CHAPTER V. 

The tempest.— The sea-bird's gift.— The escape by swim- 
ming. — The sleep in the woods. 

At the stern of his solitary ship Ulysses sat 
and steered right artfully. No sleep could 
seize his eye-lids. He beheld the Pleiads, the 
Bear which is by some called the Wain, that 
moves round about Orion, and keeps still above 
the ocean, and the slow-setting sign Bootes, 
which some name the Waggoner. Seventeen 
days he held his course, and on the eighteenth 
the coast of Phseacia was in sight. The figure 
of the land, as seen from the sea, was pretty 
and circular, and looked something like a 
shield. 

Neptune returning from visiting his favour- 
ite ^Ethiopians, from the mountains of the 
Solymi, descried Ulysses ploughing the waves, 
his domain. The sight of the man he so much 
hated for Polyphemus' sake, his son, whose 
eye Ulysses had put out, set the god's heart on 
fire ; and snatching into his hand his horrid sea- 
sceptre, the trident of his power, he smote the air 
and the sea, and conjured up all his black storms, 
calling down night from the cope of heaven, and 
taking the earth into the sea, as it seemed, 
with clouds, through the darkness and indis- 
tinctness which prevailed, the billows rolling 
up before the fury of all the winds, that con- 
tended together in their mighty sport. 

Then the knees of Ulysses bent with fear, 
and then all his spirit was spent, and he wished 
that he had been among the number of his 
countrymen who fell before Troy, and had their 
funerals celebrated by all the Greeks, rather 
than to perish thus, where no man could mourn 
him or know him. 

As he thought these melancholy thoughts, a 
huge wave took him and washed him over- 
board, ship and all upset amidst the billows, he 
struggling afar off, clinging to her stern broken 
off which he yet held, her mast cracking in 
two with the fury of that gust of mixed winds 
that struck it, sails and sail-yards fell into the 
deep, and he himself was long drowned under 
water, nor could get his head above, wave so 
met with wave, as if they strove which should 
depress him most, and the gorgeous garments 
given him by Calypso clung about him, and 
hindered his swimming : yet neither for this 



nor for the overthrow of his ship, nor his own 
perilous condition, would he give up his 
drenched vessel, but, wrestling with Neptune, 
got at length hold of her again, and then sat in 
her bulk, insulting over death, which he had 
escaped, and the salt waves which he gave the 
sea again to give to other men ; his ship, 
striving to live, floated at random, cuffed from 
wave to wave, hurled to and fro by all the 
winds, now Boreas tossed it to Notus, Notus 
passed it to Eurus, and Eiirus to the west wind, 
who kept up the horrid tennis. 

Them in their mad sport Ino Leucothea 
beheld ; Ino Leucothea, now a sea-goddess, 
but once a mortal and a daughter of Cadmus ; 
she with pity beheld Ulysses the mark of their 
fierce contention, and rising from the waves 
alighted on the ship, in shape like to the sea- 
bird which is called a cormorant, and in her 
beak she held a wonderful girdle made of sea- 
weeds which grow at the bottom of the ocean, 
which she dropped at his feet, and the bird 
spake to Ulysses, and counselled him not to 
trust any more to that fatal vessel against 
which god Neptune had levelled his furious 
wrath, nor to those ill- befriending garments 
which Calypso had given him, but to quit both 
it and them and trust for his safety to swim- 
ming. "And here," said the seeming bird, 
"take this girdle and tie about your middle, 
which has virtue to protect the wearer at sea, 
and you shall safely reach the shore ; but when 
you have landed, cast it far from you back into 
the sea." He did as the sea-bird instructed 
him, he stripped himself naked, and fastening 
the wondrous girdle about his middle, cast 
himself into the seas to swim. The bird dived 
past his sight into the fathomless abyss of the 
ocean. 

Two days and two nights he spent in strug- 
gling with the waves, though sore buffeted, and 
almost spent, never giving up himself for lost, 
such confidence he had in that charm which he 
wore about his middle, and in the words of that 
divine bird. But the third morning the winds 
grew calm and all the heavens were clear. 
Then he saw himself nigh land, which he knew 
to be the coast of the Phseacians, a people 
good to strangers, and abounding in ships, by 
whose favour he doubted not that he should 
soon obtain a passage to his own country. 
And such joy he conceived in his heart, as 
good sons have, that esteem their father's life 
dear, when long sickness has held him down to 
his bed, and wasted his body, and they see at 
length health return to the old man, with 
restored strength and spirits, in reward of their 
many prayers to the gods for his safety : so 
precious was the prospect of home-return to 
Ulysses, that he might restore health to his 
country (his better parent), that had long lan- 
guished as full of distempers in his absence. 
And then for his own safety's sake he had joy 
to see the shores, the woods, so nigh and within 



1G 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



his grasp as they seemed, and he laboured with 
all the might of hands and feet to reach with 
swimming that nigh-seeming land. 

But when he approached near, a horrid sound 
of a huge sea beating against rocks informed 
him that here was no place for landing, nor 
any harbour for man's resort, but through the 
weeds and the foam which the sea belched up 
against the land he could dimly discover the 
rugged shore all bristled with flints, and all 
that part of the coast one impending rock that 
seemed impossible to climb, and the water all 
about so deep, that not a sand was there for 
any tired foot to rest upon, and every moment 
he feared lest some wave more cruel than the 
rest should crush him against the cliff, render- 
ing worse than vain all his landing : and should 
he swim to seek a more commodious haven 
further on, he was fearful lest, weak and spent 
as he was, the winds would force him back a 
long way off into the main, where the terrible 
god Neptune, for wrath that he had so nearly 
escaped his power, having gotten him again 
into his domain, would send out some great 
whale (of which those seas breed a horrid 
number) to swallow him up alive ; with such 
malignity he still pursued him. 

"While these thoughts distracted him with 
diversity of dangers, one bigger wave drove 
against a sharp rock his naked body, which it 
gashed and tore, and wanted little of breaking 
all his bones, so rude was the shock. But in 
this extremity she prompted him that never 
failed him at need. Minerva (who is wisdom 
itself) put it into his thoughts no longer to keep 
swimming off and on, as one dallying with 
danger, but boldly to force the shore that 
threatened him, and to hug the rock that had 
torn him so rudely ; which with both hands he 
clasped, wrestling with extremity, till the rage 
of that billow which had driven him upon it 
was past ; but then again the rock drove back 
that wave so furiously, that it reft him of his 
hold, sucking him with it in its return, and the 
sharp rock (his cruel friend) to which he clinged 
for succour, rent the flesh so sore from his 
hands in parting, that he fell off, and could 
sustain no longer : quite under water he fell, 
and, past the help of fate, there had the hap- 
less Ulysses lost all portion that he had in this 
life, if Minerva had not prompted his wisdom 
in that peril to essay another course, and to 
explore some other shelter, ceasing to attempt 
that landing-place. 

She guided his wearied and nigh-exhausted 
limbs to the mouth of the fair river Callicoe, 
which not far from thence disbursed its watery 
tribute to the ocean. Here the shores were 
easy and accessible, and the rocks, which rather 
adorned, than defended its banks, so smooth, 
that they seemed polished of purpose to invite 
the landing of our sea-wanderer, and to atone 
for the uncourteous treatment which those less 
hospitable cliffs had afforded him. And the 



god of the river, as if in pity, stayed his current 
and smoothed his waters, to make his landing 
more easy : for sacred to the ever-living deities 
of the fresh waters, be they mountain-stream, 
river, or lake, is the cry of erring mortals that 
seek their aid, by reason that being inland- 
bred they partake more of the gentle humani- 
ties of our nature than those marine deities, 
whom Neptune trains up in tempests in the 
unpitying recesses of his salt abyss. 

So by the favour of the river's god Utysses 
crept to land half-drowned ; both his knees 
faltering, his strong hands falling down through 
weakness from the excessive toils he had en- 
dured, his cheek and nostrils flowing with froth 
of the sea-brine, much of which he had swal- 
lowed in that conflict, voice and breath spent, 
down he sank as in death. Dead weary he was. 
It seemed that the sea had soaked through his 
heart, and the pains he felt in all his veins were 
little less than those which one feels that has 
endured the torture of the rack. But when 
his spirits came a little to themselves, and his 
recollection by degrees began to return, he 
rose up, and unloosing from his waist the girdle 
or charm which that divine bird had given him, 
and remembering the charge which he had 
received with it, he flung it far from him into 
the river. Back it swam with the course of 
the ebbing stream till it reached the sea, where 
the fair hands of Tno Leucothea received it to 
keep it as a pledge of safety to any future ship- 
wrecked mariner, that like Ulysses should 
wander in those perilous waves. 

Then he kissed the humble earth in token of 
safety, and on he went by the side of that 
pleasant river, till he came where a thicker 
shade of rushes that grew on its banks seemed 
to point out the place where he might rest his 
sea-wearied limbs. And here a fresh perplexity 
divided his mind, whether he should pass the 
night, which was coming on, in that place, 
where, though he feared no other enemies, the 
damps and frosts of the chill sea-air in that 
exposed situation might be death to him in his 
weak state ; or whether he had better climb 
the next hill, and pierce the depth of some 
shady wood, in which he might And a warm 
and sheltered though insecure repose, subject 
to the approach of any wild beast that roamed 
that way. Best did this last course appear to 
him, though with some danger, as that which 
was more honourable and savoured more of 
strife and self-exertion, than to perish without 
a struggle the passive victim of cold and the 
elements. 

So he bent his course to the nearest woods, 
where, entering in, he found a thicket, mostly 
of wild olives and such low trees, yet growing 
so intertwined and knit together, that the 
moist wind had not leave to play through their 
branches, nor the sun's scorching beams to 
pierce their recesses, nor any shoAver to beat 
through, they grew so thick and as it were 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



17 



folded each in the other : here creeping in, he 
made his bed of the leaves which were begin- 
ning to fall, of which was such abundance that 
two or three men might have spread them 
ample coverings, such as might shield them 
from the winter's rage, though the air breathed 
steel and blew as it would burst. Here creeping 
in, he heaped up store of leaves all about him, 
as a man would billets upon a winter fire, and 
lay down in the midst. Rich seed of virtue 
lying hid in poor leaves ! Here Minerva soon 
gave him sound sleep ; and here all his long 
toils past seemed to be concluded and shut up 
within the little sphere of his refreshed and 
closed eyelids. 



CHAPTER VI. 

The princess Nausicaa. — The washing. — The game with 
the ball. — The court of Phasacia and king Alcinous. 

Meantime Minerva designing an interview 
between the king's daughter of that country, 
and Ulysses when he should awake, went by 
night to the palace of king Alcinous, and stood 
at the bed-side of the princess Nausicaa in the 
shape of one of her favourite attendants, and 
thus addressed the sleeping princess : 

a Nausicaa, why do you lie sleeping here, and 
never bestow a thought upon your bridal orna- 
ments, of which you have many and beautiful, 
laid up in your wardrobe against the day of 
your marriage, which cannot be far distant ; 
when you shall have need of all, not only to deck 
your own person, but to give away in presents 
to the virgins that honouring you shall attend 
you to the temple ? Your reputation stands 
much upon the timely care of these things ; these 
things are they which fill father and reverend 
mother with delight. Let us arise betimes to 
wash your fair vestments of linen and silks in 
the river ; and request your sire to lend you 
mules and a coach, for your wardrobe is heavy, 
and the place where we must wash is distant, 
and besides it fits not a great princess like you 
to go so far on foot." 

So saying she went away, and Nausicaa 
awoke full of pleasing thoughts of her mar- 
riage, which the dream had told her was not 
far distant ; and as soon as it was dawn, she 
arose and dressed herself, and went to find 
her parents. 

The queen her mother was already up, and 
seated among her maids, spinning at her wheel, 
as the fashion was in those primitive times, 
when great ladies did not disdain housewifery : 
and the, king her father was preparing to go 
abroad at that early hour to council with his 
grave senate. 

" My father," she said, " will you not order 
mules and a coach to be got ready, that I may 
go and wash, I and my maids, at the cisterns 
that stand without the city ?" 



" What washing does my daughter speak 
of?" said Alcinous. 

" Mine and my brothers' garments," she 
replied, " that have contracted soil by this 
time with lying by so long in the wardrobe. 
Five sons have you, that are my brothers ; 
two of them are married, and three are bache- 
lors ; these last it concerns to have their gar- 
ments neat and unsoiled ; it may advance 
their fortunes in marriage : and who but I 
their sister should have a care of these things ? 
You yourself, my father, have need of the 
whitest apparel, when you go, as now, to the 
council." 

She used this plea, modestly dissembling her 
care of her own nuptials to her father ; who 
was not displeased at this instance of his 
daughter's discretion : for a seasonable care 
about marriage may be permitted to a young 
maiden, provided it be accompanied with 
modesty and dutiful submission to her parents 
in the choice of her future husband : and there 
was no fear of Nausicaa choosing wrongly or 
improperly, for she was as wise as she was 
beautiful, and the best in all Phseacia were 
suitors to her for her love. So Alcinous 
readily gave consent that she should go, order- 
ing mules and a coach to be prepared. And 
Nausicaa brought from her chamber all her 
vestments, and laid them up in the coach, and 
her mother placed bread and wine in the coach, 
and oil in a golden cruise, to soften the bright 
skins of Nausicaa and her maids when they 
came out of the river. 

Nausicaa making her maids get up into the 
coach with her, lashed the mules, till they 
brought her to the cisterns which stood a 
little on the outside of the town, and were 
supplied with water from the river Callicoe. 

There her attendants unyoked the mules, 
took out the clothes, and steeped them in the 
cisterns, washing them in several waters, and 
afterwards treading them clean with their 
feet, venturing wagers who should have done 
soonest and cleanest, and using many pretty 
pastimes to beguile their labour as young 
maids use, while the princess looked on. 
When they had laid their clothes to dry, they 
fell to playing again, and Nausicaa joined 
them in a game with the ball, which is used 
in that country, which is performed by tossing 
the ball from hand to hand with great expedi- 
tion, she who begins the pastime singing a 
song. It chanced that the princess, whose 
turn it became to toss the ball, sent it so far 
from its mark, that it fell beyond into one of 
the cisterns of the river : at which the whole 
company, in merry consternation, set up a 
shriek so loud as waked the sleeping Ulysses, 
who was taking his rest after his long toils, in 
the woods not far distant from the place where 
these young maids had come to wash. 

At the sound of female voices Ulysses crept 
forth from his retirement, making himself a 



THE ADVENTURES OE ULYSSES. 



covering with boughs and leaves as well as he 
could to shroud his nakedness. The sudden 
appearance of his weather-beaten and almost 
naked form, so frighted the maidens that they 
scudded away into the woods and all about to 
hide themselves, only Minerva (who had brought 
about this interview to admirable purposes, by 
seemingly accidental means) put courage into 
the breast of Nausicaa, and she staid where 
she was, and resolved to know what manner 
of man he was, and what was the occasion of 
his strange coming to them. 

He not venturing (for delicacy) to approach 
and clasp her knees, as suppliants should, but 
standing far off, addressed this speech to the 
young princess : 

" Before I presume rudely to press my peti- 
tions, I should first ask whether I am address- 
ing a mortal woman, or one of the goddesses. 
If a goddess, you seem to me to be likest to 
Diana, the chaste huntress, the daughter of 
Jove. Like hers are your lineaments, your 
stature, your features, and air divine." 

She making answer that she was no goddess, 
but a mortal maid, he continued : 

" If a woman, thrice blessed are both the 
authors of your birth, thrice blessed are your 
brothers, who even to rapture must have joy 
in your perfections, to see you grown so like 
a young tree, and so graceful. But most 
blessed of all that breathe is he that has the 
gift to engage your young neck in the yoke of 
marriage. I never saw that man that was 
worthy of you. I never saw man or woman 
that at all parts equalled you. Lately at Delos 
(where I touched) I saw a young palm which 
grew beside Apollo's temple ; it exceeded all 
the trees which, ever I beheld for straightness 
and beauty : I can compare you only to that. 
A stupor past admiration strikes me, joined 
with fear, which keeps me back from approach- 
ing you, to embrace your knees. Nor is it 
strange ; for one of freshest and firmest spirit 
would falter, approaching near to so bright an 
object : but I am one whom a cruel habit of 
calamity has prepared to receive strong im- 
pressions. Twenty days the unrelenting seas 
have tossed me up and down coming from 
Ogygia, and at length cast me shipwrecked 
last night upon your coast. I have seen no 
man or woman since I landed but yourself. 
All that I crave is clothes, which you may 
spare me, and to be shown the way to some 
neighbouring town. The gods, who have 
care of strangers, will requite you for these 
courtesies." 

She admiring to hear such complimentary 
words proceed out of the mouth of one whose 
outside looked so rough and unpromising, 
made answer : " Stranger, I discern neither 
sloth nor folly in you, and yet I see that you 
are poor and wretched : from which I gather 
that neither wisdom nor industry can secure 
felicity ; only Jove bestows it upon whomso- 



ever he pleases. He perhaps has reduced you 
to this plight. However, since your wander- 
ings have brought you so near to our city, it 
lies in our duty to supply your wants. Clothes 
and what else a human hand should give to 
one so suppliant, and so tamed with calamity, 
you shall not want. We will show you our 
city, and tell you the name of our people. This 
is the land of the Phseacians, of which my 
father Alcinous is king." 

Then calling her attendants who had dis- 
persed on the first sight of Ulysses, she rebuked 
them for their fear, and said : " This man is 
no Cyclop, nor monster of sea or land, that 
you should fear him ; but he seems manly, 
staid, and discreet, and though decayed in his 
outward appearance, yet he has the mind's 
riches, wit and fortitude, in abundance. Show 
him the cisterns where he may wash him 
from the sea- weeds and foam that hang about 
him, and let him have garments that fit him 
out of those which we have brought with us to 
the cisterns." 

Ulysses retiring a little out of sight, cleansed 
him in the cisterns from the soil and impuri- 
ties with which the rocks and waves had 
covered all his body, and clothing himself with 
befitting raiment, which the princess's attend- 
ants had given him, he presented himself in 
more worthy shape to Nausicaa. She admired 
to see what a comely personage he was, now 
he was dressed in all parts : she thought him 
some king or hero : and secretly wished that 
the gods would be pleased to give her such a 
husband. 

Then causing her attendants to yoke her 
mules, and lay up the vestments, which the 
sun's heat had sufficiently dried, in the coach, 
she ascended with her maids, and drove off to 
the palace ; bidding Ulysses, as she departed, 
keep an eye upon the coach, and to follow it 
on foot at some distance : which she did, 
because if she had suffered him to have rode 
in the coach with her, it might have subjected 
her to some misconstructions of the common 
people, who are always ready to vilify and 
censure their betters, and to suspect that 
charity is not always pure charity, but that 
love or some sinister intention lies hid under 
its disguise. So discreet and attentive to 
appearance in all her actions was this admir- 
able princess. 

Ulysses as he entered the city wondered to 
see its magnificence, its markets, buildings, 
temples ; its walls and rampires ; its trade, 
and resort of men ; its harbours for shipping, 
which is the strength of the Phseacian state. 
But when he approached the palace, and beheld 
its riches, the -proportion of its architecture, 
its avenues, gardens, statues, fountains, he 
stood rapt in admiration, and almost forgot 
his own condition in surveying the flourishing 
estate of others : but recollecting himself he 
passed on boldly into the inner apartment, 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



19 



where the king and queen were sitting at 
dinner with their peers ; Nausicaa having pre- 
pared them for his approach. 

To them humbly kneeling he made it his 
request, that since fortune had cast him naked 
upon their shores, they would take him into 
their protection, and grant him a conveyance 
by one of the ships, of which their great 
Phaeacian state had such good store, to carry 
him to his own country. Having delivered 
his request, to grace it with more humility 
he went and sat himself down upon the hearth 
among the ashes, as the custom was in those 
days when any would make a petition to the 
throne. 

He seemed a petitioner of so great state and 
of so superior a deportment, that Alcinous 
himself arose to do him honour, and causing 
him to leave that abject station which he had 
assumed, placed him next to his throne, upon 
a chair of state, and thus he spake to his peers : 
" Lords and counsellors of Phseacia, ye see 
this man, who he is we know not, that is come 
to us in the guise of a petitioner : he seems no 
mean one ; but whoever he is, it is fit, since 
the gods have cast him upon our protection, 
that we grant him the rites of hospitality, 
while he stays with us, and at his departure, 
a ship well manned to convey so worthy a 
personage as he seems to be, in a manner 
suitable to his rank to his own country." 

This counsel the peers with one consent 
approved ; and wine and meat being set before 
Ulysses, he ate and drank, and gave the gods 
thanks who had stirred up the royal bounty of 
Alcinous to aid him in that extremity. But 
not as yet did he reveal to the king and queen 
who he was, or -whence he had come ; only in 
brief terms he related his being cast upon 
their shores, his sleep in the woods, and his 
meeting with the princess Nausicaa : whose 
generosity, mingled with discretion, filled her 
parents with delight, as Ulysses in eloquent 
phrases adorned and commended her virtues. 
But Alcinous, humanely considering that the 
troubles which his guest had undergone required 
rest, as well as refreshment by food, dismissed 
him early in the evening to his chamber ; 
where in a magnificent apartment Ulysses 
found a smoother bed, but not a sounder 
repose, than he had enjoyed the night before, 
sleeping upon leaves which he had scraped 
together in his necessity. 



CHAPTER VII. 

The songs of Demodocus. — The convoy home. — The mari- 
ners transformed to stone.— -The young shepherd. 

When it was day-light, Alcinous caused it 
to be proclaimed by the heralds about the 
town, that there was come to the palace a 
stranger, shipwrecked on their coast, that in 
mien and person resembled a god : and invit- 



ing all the chief people of the city to come 
and do honour to the stranger. 

The palace was quickly filled with guests, 
old and young, for whose cheer, and to grace 
Ulysses more, Alcinous made a kingly feast 
with banquetings and music. Then Ulysses 
being seated at a table next the king and 
queen, in all men's view ; after they had 
feasted Alcinous ordered Demodocus, the 
court-singer, to be called to sing some song of 
the deeds of heroes, to charm the ear of his 
guest. Demodocus came and reached his 
harp, where it hung between two pillars of 
silver : and then the blind singer, to whom, in 
recompense of his lost sight, the muses had 
given an inward discernment, a soul and a 
voice to excite the hearts of men and gods to 
delight, began in grave and solemn strains to 
sing the glories of men highliest famed. He 
chose a poem, whose subject was, the stern 
strife stirred up between Ulysses and groat 
Achilles, as at a banquet sacred to the gods in 
dreadful language they expressed their differ- 
ence ; while Agamemnon sat rejoiced in soul 
to hear those Grecians jar : for the oracle in 
Pytho had told him, that the period of their 
wars in Troy should then be, when the kings 
of Greece, anxious to arrive at the wished con- 
clusion, should fall to strife, and contend which 
must end the war, force or stratagem. 

This brave contention he expressed so to 
the life, in the very words which they both 
used in the quarrel, as brought tears into the 
eyes of Ulysses at the remembrance of past 
passages of his life, and he held his large purple 
weed before his face to conceal it. Then 
craving a cup of wine, he poured it out in 
secret libation to the gods, who had put into 
the mind of Demodocus unknowingly to do 
him so much honour. But when the moving 
poet began to tell of other occurrences where 
Ulysses had been present, the memory of his 
brave followers who had been with him in all 
difficulties, now swallowed up and lost in the 
ocean, and of those kings that had fought with 
him at Troy, some of whom were dead, some 
exiles like himself, forced itself so strongly 
upon his mind, that forgetful where he was, 
he sobbed outright with passion ; which yet 
he restrained, but not so cunningly but Alci- 
nous perceived it, and without taking notice of 
it to Ulysses, privately gave signs that Demo- 
docus should cease from his singing. 

Next followed dancing in the Phseacian fa- 
shion, when they would show respect to their 
guests ; which was succeeded by trials of skill, 
games of strength, running, racing, hurling of 
the quoit, mock fights, hurling of the javelin, 
shooting with the bow : in some of which Ulys- 
ses modestly challenging his entertainers, per- 
formed such feats of strength and prowess as 
gave the admiring Phseacians fresh reason to 
imagine that he was either some god, or hero 
of the race of the gods. 



20 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



These solemn shows and pageants in honour 
of his guest, king Alcinous continued for the 
space of many days, as if he could never be 
weary of showing courtesies to so worthy a 
stranger. In all this time he never asked him 
his name, nor sought to know more of him than 
he of his own accord disclosed ; till on a day as 
they were seated feasting, after the feast was 
ended, Demodocus being called, as was the 
custom, to sing some grave matter, sang how 
Ulysses, on that night when Troy was fired, 
made dreadful proof of his valour, maintaining 
singly a combat against the whole household 
of Deiphobus, to which the divine expresser 
gave both act and passion, and breathed such a 
fire into Ulysses' deeds, that it inspired old 
death with life in the lively expressing of 
slaughters, and rendered life so sweet and 
passionate in the hearers, that all who heard 
felt it fleet from them in the narration : which 
made Ulysses even pity his own slaughterous 
deeds, and feel touches of remorse, to see how 
song can revive a dead man from the grave, 
yet no way can it defend a living man from 
death : and in imagination he underwent some 
part of death's horrors, and felt in his living 
body a taste of those dying pangs which he had 
dealt to others ; that with the strong conceit, 
tears (the true interpreters of unutterable emo- 
tion) stood in his eyes. 

Which king Alcinous noting, and that this 
was now the second time that he had perceived 
him to be moved at the mention of events 
touching the Trojan wars, he took occasion to 
ask whether his guest had lost any friend or 
kinsman at Troy, that Demodocus' singing 
had brought into his mind. Then Ulysses, 
drying the tears with his cloak, and observing 
that the eyes of all the company were upon 
him, desirous to give them satisfaction in what 
he could, and thinking this a fit time to reveal 
his true name and destination, spake as follows : 

" The courtesies which ye all have shown me, 
and in particular yourself and princely daughter, 

king Alcinous, demand from me that I should 
no longer keep you in ignorance of what or who 

1 am ; for to reserve any secret from you, who 
have with such openness of friendship embraced 
my love, would argue either a pusillanimous or 
an ungrateful mind in me. Know then that I 
am that Ulysses, of whom I perceive ye have 
heard something ; who heretofore have filled 
the world with the renown of my policies. I 
am he by whose counsels, if fame is to be 
believed at all, more than by the united valour 
of all the Grecians, Troy fell. I am that un- 
happy man whom the heavens and angry gods 
have conspired to keep an exile on the seas, 
wandering to seek my home which still flies 
from me. The land which I am in quest of is 
Ithaca ; in whose ports some ship belonging 
to your navigation-famed Phseacian state may 
haply at some time have found a refuge from 
tempests. If ever you have experienced such 



kindness, requite it now ; by granting to me, 
who am the king of that land, a passport to 
that land." 

Admiration seized all the court of Alcinous, 
to behold in their presence one of the number 
of those heroes who fought at Troy, whose 
divine story had been made known to them by 
songs and poems, but of the truth they had 
little known, or rather they had hitherto ac- 
counted those heroic exploits as fictions and 
exaggerations of poets ; but having seen and 
made proof of the real Ulysses, they began to 
take those supposed inventions to be real veri- 
ties, and the tale of Troy to be as true as it 
was delightful. 

Then king Alcinous made answer : " Thrice 
fortunate ought we to esteem our lot, in having 
seen and conversed with a man of whom report 
hath spoken so loudly, but, as it seems, nothing 
beyond the truth. Though we could desire no 
felicity greater than to have you always among 
us, renowned Ulysses, yet your desire having 
been expressed so often and so deeply to return 
home, we can deny you nothing, though to our 
own loss. Our kingdom of Phseacia, as you 
know, is chiefly rich in shipping. In all parts 
of the world, where there are navigable seas, 
or ships can pass, our vessels will be found. 
You cannot name a coast to which they do not 
resort. Every rock and every quicksand is 
known to them that lurks in the vast deep. 
They pass a bird in flight ; and with such un- 
erring certainty they make to their destination, 
that some have said that they have no need of 
pilot or rudder, but that they move instinctively, 
self-directed, and know the minds of their voy- 
agers. Thus much, that you may not fear to 
trust yourself in one of our Phseacian ships. To- 
morrow if you please you shall launch forth. 
To-day spend with us in feasting ; who never 
can do enough when the gods send such 
visitors." 

Ulysses acknowledged king Alcinous's 
bounty ; and while these two royal personages 
stood interchanging courteous expressions, the 
heart of the princess Nausicaa was overcome : 
she had been gazing attentively upon her 
father's guest, as he delivered his speech ; but 
when he came to that part where he declared 
himself to be Ulysses, she blessed herself and her 
fortune, that in relieving a poor shipwrecked 
mariner, as he seemed no better, she had con- 
ferred a kindness on so divine a hero as he 
proved : and scarce waiting till her father had 
done speaking, with a cheerful countenance 
she addressed Ulysses, bidding him be cheer- 
ful, and when he returned home, as by her 
father's means she trusted he would shortly, 
sometimes to remember to whom he owed his 
life, and who met him in the woods by the 
river Callicoe. 

" Fair flower of Phseacia," he replied, " so 
may all the gods bless me with the strife of 
joys in that desired day, whenever I shall see 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



21 



it, as I shall always acknowledge to be indebted 
to your fair hand for the gift of life which I 
enjoy, and all the blessings which shall follow 
upon my home-return. The gods give thee, 
Nausicaa, a princely husband ; and from you 
two spring blessings to this state." So prayed 
Ulysses, his heart overflowing with admiration 
and grateful recollections of king Alcinous's 
daughter. 

Then at the king's request he gave them a 
brief relation of all the adventures that had 
befallen him, since he launched forth from 
Troy : during which the princess Nausicaa took 
great delight (as ladies are commonly taken 
with these kind of travellers' stories) to hear 
of the monster Polyphemus, of the men that 
devour each other in Lsestrygonia, of the en- 
chantress Circe, of Scylla, and the rest ; to 
which she listened with a breathless attention, 
letting fall a shower of tears from her fair eyes 
every now and then, when Ulysses told of some 
more than usual distressful passage in his 
travels, and all the rest of his auditors, if they 
had before entertained a high respect for their 
guest, now felt their veneration increased ten- 
fold, when they learned from his own mouth 
what perils, what sufferance, what endurance, 
of evils beyond man's strength to support, this 
much-sustaining, almost heavenly man, by the 
greatness of his mind, and by his invincible 
courage, had struggled through. 

The night was far spent before Ulysses had 
ended his narrative, and with wishful glances 
he cast his eyes towards the eastern parts, 
which the sun had begun to flecker with his 
first red : for on the morrow Alcinous had 
promised that a bark should be in readiness to 
convoy him to Ithaca. 

In the morning a vessel well manned and 
appointed was waiting for him : into which the 
king and queen heaped presents of gold and 
silver, massy plate, apparel, armour, and what- 
soever things of cost or rarity they judged 
would be most acceptable to their guest : and 
the sails being set, Ulysses embarking with 
expressions of regret took his leave of his royal 
entertainers, of the fair princess (who had 
been his first friend), and of the peers of 
Phseacia ; who crowding down to the beach to 
have the last sight of their illustrious visitant, 
beheld the gallant ship with all her canvas 
spread, bounding and curveting over the waves, 
like a horse proud of his rider ; or as if she 
knew that in her capacious womb's rich 
freightage she bore Ulysses. 

He whose life past had been a series of dis- 
quiets, in seas among rude waves, in battles 
amongst ruder foes, now slept securely, for- 
getting all ; his eyelids bound in such deep 
sleep, as only yielded to death : and when they 
reached the nearest Ithacan port by the next 
morning, he was still asleep. The mariners 
not willing to awake him, landed him softly, 
and laid him in a cave at the foot of an olive- 



tree, which made a shady recess in that narrow 
harbour, the haunt of almost none but the sea- 
nymphs, which are called Naiads ; few ships 
before this Phseacian vessel having put into 
that haven, by reason of the difficulty and 
narrowness of the entrance. Here leaving him 
asleep, and disposing in safe places near him 
the presents with which king Alcinous had 
dismissed him, they departed for Phseacia ; 
where these wretched mariners never again 
set foot ; but just as they arrived, and thought 
to salute their country earth ; in sight of their 
city's turrets, and in open view of their friends 
who from the harbour with shouts greeted their 
return ; their vessel and all the mariners which 
were in her were turned to stone, and stood 
transformed and fixed in sight of the whole 
Phseacian city, where it yet stands, by Nep- 
tune's vindictive wrath ; who resented thus 
highly the contempt which those Phaeacians 
had shown in convoying home a man whom 
the god had destined to destruction. "Whence 
it comes to pass that the Phaeacians at this day 
will at no price be induced to lend their ships 
to strangers, or to become the carriers for other 
nations, so highly do they still dread the dis- 
pleasure of the sea-god, while they see that 
terrible monument ever in sight. 

When Ulysses awoke, which was not till 
some time after the mariners had departed, he 
did not at first know his country again, either 
that long absence had made it strange, or that 
Minerva (which was more likely) had cast a 
cloud about his eyes, that he should have 
greater pleasure hereafter in discovering his 
mistake : but like a man suddenly awaking in 
some desert isle, to which his sea-mates have 
transported him in his sleep, he looked around, 
and discerning no known objects, he cast his 
hands to heaven for pity, and complained on 
those ruthless men who had beguiled him with 
a promise of conveying him home to his country, 
and perfidiously left him to perish in an un- 
known land. But then the rich presents of 
gold and silver given him by Alcinous, which 
he saw carefully laid up in secure places near 
him, staggered him : which seemed not like 
the act of wrongful or unjust men, such as turn 
pirates for gain, or land helpless passengers in re- 
mote coasts to possess themselves of their goods. 
While he remained in this suspense, there 
came up to him a young shepherd, clad in the 
finer sort of apparel, such as king's sons wore 
in those days when princes did not disdain to 
tend sheep, who accosting him, was saluted 
again by Ulysses, who asked him what country 
that was on which he had been just landed, 
and whether it were part of a continent, or an 
island. The young shepherd made show of 
wonder, to hear any one ask the name of that 
land ; as country people are apt to esteem 
those for mainly ignorant and barbarous who 
do not know the names of places which are 
familiar to them, though perhaps they who ask 



22 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



have had no opportunities of knowing, and 
may have come from far countries. 

" I had thought," said he," that all people knew 
our land. It is rocky and barren, to be sure ; but 
well enough : it feeds a goat or an ox well ; it is 
not wanting either in wine or in wheat ; it has 
good springs of water, some fair rivers, and wood 
enough, as you may see : it is called Ithaca." 

Ulysses was joyed enough to find himself in 
his own country ; but so prudently he carried 
his joy, that dissembling his true name and 
quality, he pretended to the shepherd that he 
was only some foreigner who by stress of wea- 
ther had put into that port ; and framed on 
the sudden a story to make it plausible, how 
he had come from Crete in a ship of Pheeacia ; 
when the young shepherd laughing, and taking 
Ulysses' hand in both his, said to him : " He 
must be cunning, I find, who thinks to over- 
reach you. What, cannot you quit your wiles 
and your subtleties, now that you are in a state 
of security ? must the first word with which 
you salute your native earth be an untruth ? 
and think you that you are unknown ?" 

Ulysses looked again ; and he saw, not a 
shepherd, but a beautiful woman, whom he 
immediately knew to be the goddess Minerva, 
that in the wars of Troy had frequently vouch- 
safed her sight to him ; and had been with him 
since in perils, saving him unseen. 

"Let not my ignorance offend thee, great 
Minerva," he cried, " or move thy displeasure, 
that in that shape I knew thee not ; since the 
skill of discerning of deities is not attainable 
by wit or study, but hard to be hit by the 
wisest of mortals. To know thee truly through 
all thy changes is only given to those whom 
thou art pleased to grace. To all men thou 
takest all likenesses. All men in their wits 
think that they know thee, and that they have 
thee. Thou art wisdom itself. But a semblance 
of thee, which is false wisdom, often is taken 
for thee : so thy counterfeit view appears to 
many, but thy true presence to few : those are 
they which, loving thee above all, are inspired 
with light from thee to know thee. But this 
I surely know, that all the time the sons of 
Greece waged war against Troy, I was sundry 
times graced with thy appearance ; but since, 
I have never been able to set eyes upon thee 
till noAv : but have wandered at my own dis- 
cretion, to myself a blind guide, erring up and 
down the world wanting thee." 

Then Minerva cleared his eyes, and he knew 
the ground on which he stood to be Ithaca, 
and that cave to be the same which the people 
of Ithaca had in former times made sacred to 
the sea-nymphs, and where he himself had done 
sacrifices to them a thousand times ; and full 
in his view stood Mount Nerytus with all his 
woods: so that now he knew for a certainty 
that he was arrived in his own country, and 
with the delight which he felt he could not 
forbear stooping down and kissing the soil. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

The change from a king to a beggar. — Eumseus and the 
herdsmen.— Telemachus. 

Not long did Minerva suffer him to indulge 
vain transports, but briefly recounting to him 
the events which had taken place in Ithaca 
during his absence, she showed him that his 
way to his wife and throne did not lie so open, 
but that before he were reinstated in the secure 
possession of them, he must encounter many 
difficulties. His palace, wanting its king, was 
become the resort of insolent and imperious 
men, the chief nobility of Ithaca and of the neigh- 
bouring isles, who, in the confidence of Ulysses 
being dead, came as suitors to Penelope. The 
queen (it was true) continued single, but was 
little better than a state-prisoner in the power 
of these men, who under a pretence of waiting 
her decision, occupied the king's house, rather 
as owners than guests, lording and domineering 
at their pleasure, profaning the palace, and 
wasting the royal substance, with their feasts 
and mad riots. Moreover the goddess told him 
how fearing the attempts of these lawless men 
upon the person of his young son Telemachus, 
she herself had put it into the heart of the 
prince,to go and seek his father in far countries ; 
how in the shape of Mentor she had borne him 
company in his long search ; which, though 
failing, as she meant it should fail, in its first 
object, had yet had this effect, that through 
hardships he had learned endurance, through 
experience he had gathered wisdom, and wher- 
ever his footsteps had been, he had left such 
memorials of his worth, as the fame of Ulysses' 
son was already blown throughout the world. 
That it was now not many days since Telema- 
chus had arrived in the island, to the great joy 
of the queen his mother, who had thought him 
dead, by reason of his long absence, and had 
begun to mourn for him with a grief equal to 
that which she endured for Ulysses : the god- 
dess herself having so ordered the course of his 
adventures, that the time of his return should 
correspond with the return of Ulysses, that 
they might together concert measures how to 
repress the power and insolence of those wicked 
suitors. This the goddess told him ; but of the 
particulars of his son's adventures, of his 
having been detained in the delightful island, 
which his father had so lately left, of Calypso, 
and her nymphs, and the many strange occur- 
rences which may be read with profit and 
delight in the history of the prince's adven- 
tures, she forbore to tell him as yet, as judging 
that he would hear them with greater pleasure 
from the lips of his son, when he should have 
him in an hour of stillness and safety, when 
their work should be done, and none of their 
enemies left alive to trouble them. 

Then they sat down, the goddess and Ulys- 
ses, at the foot of a wild olive-tree, consulting 
how they might with safety bring about his 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



23 



restoration. And when Ulysses revolved in 
liis mind how that his enemies were a multi- 
tude, and he single, he began to despond, and 
he said : " I shall die an ill death like Aga- 
memnon ; in the threshold of my own house I 
shall perish, like that unfortunate monarch, 
slain by some one of my wife's suitors." But 
then again calling to mind his ancient courage, he 
secretly wished that Minerva would but breathe 
such a spirit into his bosom as she inflamed him 
with in the hour of Troy's destruction, that he 
might encounter with three hundred of those 
impudent suitors at once, and strew the pave- 
ments of his beautiful palace with their bloods 
and brains. 

And Minerva knew his thoughts, and she 
said, " I will be strongly with thee, if thou fail 
not to do thy part. And for a sign between 
us that I will perform my promise, and for a 
token on thy part of obedience, I must change 
thee, that thy person may not be known of 
men." 

Then Ulysses bowed his head to receive the 
divine impression, and Minerva by her great 
power changed his person so that it might not 
be known. She changed him to appearance 
into a very old man, yet such a one as by his 
limbs and gait seemed to have been some con- 
siderable person in his time, and to retain yet 
some remains of his once prodigious strength. 
Also, instead of those rich robes in which king 
Alcinous had clothed him, she threw over his 
limbs such old and tattered rags as wandering 
beggars usually wear. A staff supported his 
steps, and a scrip hung to his back, such as 
travelling mendicants use, to hold the scraps 
which are given to them at rich men's doors. 
So from a king he became a beggar, as wise 
Tiresias had predicted to him in the shades. 

To complete his humiliation, and to prove 
his obedience by suffering, she next directed 
him in this beggarly attire to go and present 
himself to his old herdsman Eumgeus, who had 
the care of his swine and his cattle, and had 
been a faithful steward to him all the time of 
his absence. Then strictly charging Ulysses 
that he should reveal himself to no man, but to 
his own son, whom she would send to him 
when she saw occasion, the goddess went her 
way. 

The transformed Ulysses bent his course to 
the cottage of the herdsman, and entering in 
at the front court, the dogs, of which Eumgeus 
kept many fierce ones for the protection of the 
cattle, flew with open mouths upon him, as 
those ignoble animals have oftentimes an anti- 
pathy to the sight of anything like a beggar, 
and would have rent him in pieces with their 
teeth, if Ulysses had not had the prudence to 
let fall his staff which had chiefly provoked 
their fury, and sat himself down in a careless 
fashion upon the ground : but for all that some 
serious hurt had certainly been done to him, so 
raging the dogs were, had not the herdsman, 



whom the barking of the dogs had fetched out 
of the house, with shouting and with throwing 
of stones repressed them. 

He said, when he saw Ulysses, " Old father, 
how near you were to being torn in pieces by 
these rude dogs ! I should never have for- 
given myself, if through neglect of mine any 
hurt had happened to you. But Heaven has 
given me so many cares to my portion, that I 
might well be excused for not attending to 
everything : while here I lie grieving and 
mourning for the absence of that majesty 
which once ruled here, and am forced to fatten 
his swine and his cattle for food to evil men, 
who hate him, and who wish his death ; when 
he perhaps strays up and down the world, and 
has not wherewith to appease hunger, if indeed 
he yet lives (which is a question) and enjoys 
the cheerful light of the sun." This he said, 
little thinking that he of whom he spoke now 
stood before him, and that in that uncouth dis- 
guise and beggarly obscurity was present the 
hidden majesty of Ulysses. 

Then he had his guest into the house, and set 
meat and drink before him ; and Ulysses said, 
" May Jove and all the other gods requite you 
for the kind speeches and hospitable usage 
which you have shown me !" 

Euniseus made answer, " My poor guest, if 
one in much worse plight than yourself had 
arrived here, it were a shame to such scanty 
means as I have, if I had let him depart without 
entertaining him to the best of my ability. 
Poor men, and such as have no houses of their 
own, are by Jove himself recommended to our 
care. But the cheer which we that are ser- 
vants to other men have to bestow, is but sorry 
at most, yet freely and lovingly I give it you. 
Indeed there once ruled here a man, whose return 
the gods have set their faces against, who if he 
had been suffered to reign in peace and grow 
old among us, would have been kind to me and 
mine. But he is gone ; and for his sake would 
to God that the whole posterity of Helen might 
perish with her, since in her quarrel so many 
worthies have perished ! But such as your fare 
is, eat it, and be welcome ; such lean beasts as 
are food for poor herdsmen. The fattest go to 
feed the voracious stomachs of the queen's 
suitors. Shame on their unworthiness, there 
is no day in which two or three of the noblest 
of the herd are not slain to support their feasts 
and their surfeits." 

Ulysses gave good ear to his words, and as 
he ate his meat, he even tore it and rent it 
with his teeth, for mere vexation that his fat 
cattle should be slain to glut the appetites of 
those godless suitors. And he said, "What 
chief or what ruler is this, that thou commend- 
est so highly, and sayest that he perished at 
Troy ? I am but a stranger in these parts. It 
may be I have heard of some such in my long 
travels." 

Eumseus answered, " Old father, never any 



24 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



one of all the strangers that have come to our 
coast with news of Ulysses being alive, could 
gain credit with the queen or her son yet. 
These travellers, to get raiment or a meal, will 
not stick to invent any lie. Truth is not the 
commodity they deal in. Never did the queen 
get anything of them but lies. She receives 
all that come graciously, hears their stories, 
inquires all she can, but all ends in tears and 
dissatisfaction. But in God's name, old father, 
if you have got a tale, make the most on't, it 
may gain you a cloak or a coat from somebody 
to keep you warm : but for him who is the 
subject of it, dogs and vultures long since have 
torn him limb from limb, or some great fish at 
sea has devoured him, or he lieth with no bet- 
ter monument upon his bones than the sea- 
sand. But for me past all the race of men 
were tears created : for I never shall find so 
kind a royal master more ; not if my father or 
my mother could come again and visit me 
from the tomb, would my eyes be so blessed, 
as they should be with the sight of him again, 
coming as from the dead. In his last rest my 
soul shall love him. He is not here, nor do I 
name him as a flatterer, but because I am 
thankful for his love and care which he had to 
me a poor man ; and if I knew surely that he 
were past all shores that the sun shines upon, 
I would invoke him as a deified thing." 

For this saying of Eumseus the waters stood 
in Ulysses' eyes, and he said, " My friend, to 
say and to affirm positively that he cannot be 
alive, is to give too much licence to incredulity. 
For, not to speak at random but with as much 
solemnity as an oath comes to, I say to you 
that Ulysses shall return, and whenever that 
day shall be, then shall you give to me a cloak 
and a coat ; but till then, I will not receive so 
much as a thread of a garment, but rather go 
naked ; for no less than the gates of hell do I 
hate that man, whom poverty can force to tell 
an untruth. Be Jove then witness to my words, 
that this very year, nay ere this month be fully 
ended, your eyes shall behold Ulysses, dealing 
vengeance in his own palace upon the wrongers 
of his wife and his son." 

To give the better credence to his words, 
he amused Eumseus with a forged story of 
his life, feigning of himself that he was a Cretan 
born, and one that went with Idomeneus to 
the wars of Troy. Also he said that he knew 
Ulysses ; and related various passages which he 
alleged to have happened betwixt Ulysses and 
himself, which were either true in the main, as 
having really happened between Ulysses and 
some other person, or were so like to truth, as 
corresponding with the known character and 
actions of Ulysses, that Eumseus's incredulity 
was not a little shaken. Among other things 
he asserted that he had lately been entertained 
in the court of Thesprotia, where the king's 
son of the country had told him, that Ulysses 
had been there but just before him, and was 



gone upon a voyage to the oracle of Jove in 
Dodona, whence he should shortly return, and 
a ship would be ready by the bounty of the 
Thesprotians to convoy him straight to Ithaca. 
" And in token that what I tell you is true," 
said Ulysses, " if your king come not within 
the period which I have named, you shall have 
leave to give your servants commandment to 
take my old carcase, and throw it headlong 
from some steep rock into the sea, that poor 
men, taking example by me, may fear to lie " 
But Eumseus made answer that that should be 
small satisfaction or pleasure to him. 

So while they sat discoursing in this manner, 
supper was served in, and the servants of the 
herdsman, who had been out all day in the 
fields, came in to supper, and took their seats at 
the fire, for the night was bitter and frosty. 
After supper, Ulysses, who had well eaten and 
drunken, and was refreshed with the herds- 
man's good cheer, was resolved to try whether 
his host's hospitality would extend to the lend- 
ing him a good warm mantle or rug to cover 
him in the night-season ; and framing an art- 
ful tale for the purpose, in a merry mood, fill- 
ing a cup of Greek wine, he thus began : 

" I will tell you a story of your king Ulysses 
and myself. If there is ever a time when a 
man may have leave to tell his own stories, it 
is when he has drunken a little too much. 
Strong liquor driveth the fool, and moves even 
the heart of the wise, moves and impels him to 
sing and to dance, and break forth in pleasant 
laughters, and perchance to prefer a speech too 
which were better kept in. When the heart 
is open, the tongue will be stirring. But you 
shall hear. We led our powers to ambush 
once under the walls of Troy — " 

The herdsmen crowded about him eager to 
hear anything which related to their king 
Ulysses and the wars of Troy, and thus he 
went on : 

" I remember, Ulysses and Menelaus had the 
direction of that enterprise, and they were 
pleased to join me with them in the command. 
I was at that time in some repute among men, 
though fortune has played me a trick since, as 
you may perceive. But I was somebody in 
those times, and could do something. Be that 
as it may, a bitter freezing night it was, such 
a night as this ; the air cut like steel, and the 
sleet gathered on our shields like crystal. 
There was some twenty of us, that lay close 
couched down among the reeds and bullrushes 
that grew in the moat that goes round the city. 
The rest of us made tolerable shift, for every 
man had been careful to bring with him a good 
cloak or mantle to wrap over his armour and 
keep himself warm ; but I, as it chanced, had 
left my cloak behind me, as not expecting that 
the night would prove so cool, or rather I believe 
because I had at that time a brave suit of new 
armour on, which, being a soldier, and having 
some of the soldier's vice about me, vanity, I 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



25 



was not willing should be hidden under a 
cloak ; but I paid for my indiscretion with my 
sufferings, for with the inclement night, and 
the wet of the ditch in which we lay, I was 
well nigh frozen to death ; and when I could 
endure no longer, I jogged Ulysses who was 
next to me, and had a nimble ear, and made 
known my case to him, assuring him that I 
must inevitably perish. He answered in a low 
whisper, " Hush, lest any Greek should hear 
you, and take notice of your softness." Not a 
word more he said, but showed as if he had no 
pity for the plight I was in. But he was as 
considerate as he was brave, and even then, as 
he lay with his head reposing upon his hand, 
he was meditating how to relieve me, without 
exposing my weakness to the soldiers. At last 
raising up his head, he made as if he had been 
asleep, and said, " Friends, I have been warned 
in a dream to send to the fleet to king Aga- 
memnon for a supply, to recruit our numbers, 
for we are not sufficient for this enterprise :" 
and they believing him, one Thoas was de- 
spatched on that errand, who departing, for 
more speed, as Ulysses had foreseen, left his 
upper garment behind him, a good warm mantle, 
to which I succeeded, and by the help of it got 
through the night with credit. This shift 
Ulysses made for one in need, and would to 
Heaven that I had now that strength in my 
limbs, which made me in those days to be ac- 
counted fit to be a leader under Ulysses ! I 
should not then want the loan of a cloak or a 
mantle, to wrap about me and shield my old 
limbs from the night-air." 

The tale pleased the herdsmen ; and Eumseus, 
who more than all the rest was gratified to 
hear tales of Ulysses, true or false, said, that 
for his story he deserved a mantle, and a night's 
lodging, which he should have ; and he spread 
for him a bed of goat and sheep skins by the 
fire ; and the seeming beggar, who was indeed 
the true Ulysses, lay down and slept under 
that poor roof, in that abject disguise to which 
the will of Minerva had subjected him. 

When morning was come, Ulysses made 
offer to depart, as if he were not willing to 
burthen his host's hospitality any longer, but 
said, that he would go and try the humanity of 
the town's-folk, if any there would bestow upon 
him a bit of bread or a cup of drink. Perhaps 
the queen's suitors (he said) out of their full 
feasts would bestow a scrap on him : for he 
could wait at table, if need were, and play the 
nimble serving-man, he could fetch wood (he 
said) or build a fire, prepare roast meat or 
boiled, mix the wine with water, or do any of 
those offices which recommended poor men like 
him to services in great men's houses. 

" Alas ! poor guest," said Eumaeus, u you 
know not what you speak. "What should so 
poor and old a man as you do at the suitors' 
tables ? Their light minds are not given to 
such grave servitors. They must have youths, 



richly tricked out in flowing vests, with curled 
hair, like so many of Jove's cup-bearers, to fill 
out the wine to them as they sit at table, and 
to shift their trenchers. Their gorged insolence 
would but despise and make a mock at thy age. 
Stay here. Perhaps the queen, or Telemachus, 
hearing of thy arrival, may send to thee of 
their bounty." 

As he spake these words, the steps of one 
crossing the front court were heard, and a noise 
of the dogs fawning and leaping about as for 
joy ; by which token Eumseus guessed that it 
was the prince, who hearing of a traveller being 
arrived at Eumseus's cottage that brought 
tidings of his father, was come to search the 
truth, and Eumseus said, "It is the tread of 
Telemachus, the son of king Ulysses." Before 
he could well speak the words, the prince was 
at the door, whom Ulysses rising to receive, 
Telemachus would not suffer that so aged a man, 
as he appeared, should rise to do respect to 
him, but he courteously and reverently took 
him by the hand, and inclined his head to him, 
as if he had surely known that it was his father 
indeed : but Ulysses covered his eyes with his 
hands, that he might not show the waters which 
stood in them. And Telemachus said, " Is this 
the man who can tell us tidings of the king my 
father ?" 

" He brags himself to be a Cretan born," 
said Eumseus, "and that he has been a soldier 
and a traveller, but whether he speak the truth 
or not he alone can tell. But whatsoever he 
has been, what he is now is apparent. Such as 
he appears, I give him to you ; do what you 
will with him ; his boast at present is that he 
is at the very best a supplicant." 

" Be he what he may," said Telemachus, " T 
accept him at your hands. But where I should 
bestow him I know not, seeing that in the 
palace his age would not exempt him from the 
scorn and contempt which my mother's suitors 
in their lisrht minds would be sure to fling upon 
him. A mercy if he escaped without blows : 
for they are a company of evil men, whose pro- 
fession is wrongs and violence." 

Ulysses answered : " Since it is free for any 
man to speak in presence of your greatness, I 
must say that my heart puts on a wolfish incli- 
nation to tear and to devour, hearing your speech, 
that these suitors should with such injustice 
rage, where you should have the rule solely. 
What should the cause be ? do you wilfully 
give way to their ill manners ? or has your 
government been such as has procured ill-will 
towards you from your people ? or do you mis- 
trust your kinsfolk and friends in such sort, as 
without trial to decline their aid ? A man's 
kindred are they that he might trust to when 
extremities run high." 

Telemachus replied : " The kindred of 
Ulysses are few. I have no brothers to assist 
me in the strife. But the suitors are powerful 
in kindred and friends. The house of old 



26 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



Arcesius has had this fate from the heavens, 
that from old it still has been supplied with 
single heirs. To Arcesius Laertes only was 
born, from Laertes descended only Ulysses, 
from Ulysses I alone have sprung, whom he 
left so young, that from me never comfort 
arose to him. But the end of all rests in the 
hands of the gods." 

Then Eumseus departing to see some neces- 
sary business of his herds, Minerva took a 
woman's shape, and stood in the entry of the 
door, and was seen to Ulysses, but by his son 
she was not seen, for the presences of the gods 
are invisible save to those to whom they will 
to reveal themselves. Nevertheless the dogs 
which were about the door saw the goddess, 
and durst not bark, but went crouching and 
licking of the dust for fear. And giving signs 
to Ulysses that the time was now come in 
which he should make himself known to his 
son, by her great power she changed back his 
shape into the same which it was before she 
transformed him ; and Telemachus, who saw 
the change, but nothing of the manner by 
which it was effected, only he saw the appear- 
ance of a king in the vigour of his age where 
but just now he had seen a worn and decrepit 
beggar, was struck with fear, and said, " Some 
god has done this house this honour," and he 
turned away his eyes, and would have wor- 
shipped. But his father permitted not, but 
said, " Look better at me ; I am no deity, why 
put you upon me the reputation of godhead ? I 
am no more but thy father : I am even he ; I 
am that Ulysses, by reason of whose absence 
thy youth has been exposed to such wrongs 
from injurious men." Then kissed he his son, 
nor could any longer refrain those tears which 
he had held under such mighty restraint before, 
though they would ever be forcing themselves 
out in spite of him ; but now, as if their sluices 
had burst, they came out like rivers, pouring 
upon the warm cheeks of his son. Nor yet by 
all these violent arguments could Telemachus 
be persuaded to believe that it was his father, 
but he said some deity had taken that shape to 
mock him ; for he affirmed, tl\at it was not in 
the power of any man, who is sustained by 
mortal food, to change his shape so in a moment 
from age to youth : for " but now," said he, 
" you were all wrinkles, and were old, and now 
you look as the gods are pictured." 

His father replied : " Admire, but fear not, 
and know me to be at all parts substantially 
thy father, who in the inner powers of his mind, 
and the unseen workings of a father's love to 
thee, answers to his outward shape and pre- 
tence ! There shall no more Ulysseses come 
here. I am he that after twenty years' absence, 
and suffering a world of ill, have recovered at 
last the sight of my country earth. It was the 
will of Minerva that I should be changed as 
you saw me. She put me thus together ; she 
puts together or takes to pieces whom she 



pleases. It is in the law of her free power to 
do it : sometimes to show her favourites under 
a cloud, and poor, and again to restore to them 
their ornaments. The gods raise and throw 
down men with ease." 

Then Telemachus could hold out no longer, 
but he gave way now to a full belief and per- 
suasion, of that which for joy at first he could 
not credit, that it was indeed his true and very 
father that stood before him ; and they em- 
braced, and mingled their tears. 

Then said Ulysses, " Tell me who these 
suitors are, what are their numbers, and how 
stands the queen thy mother affected to them ?" 

" She bears them still in expectation," said 
Telemachus, " which she never means to fulfil, 
that she will accept the hand of some one of 
them in second nuptials. For she fears to dis- 
please them by an absolute refusal. So from 
day to day she lingers them on with hope, 
which they are content to bear the deferring 
of, while they have entertainment at free cost 
in our palace." 

Then said Ulysses, " Reckon up their num- 
bers that we may know their strength and ours, 
if we, having none but ourselves, may hope to 
prevail against them." 

"O father," he replied, "I have oft-times 
heard of your fame for wisdom, and of the great 
strength of your arm, but the venturous mind 
which your speeches now indicate moves me 
even to amazement : for in no wise can it con- 
sist with wisdom or a sound mind, that two 
should try their strengths against a host. 
Nor five, or ten, or twice ten strong are these 
suitors, but many more by much : from Duli- 
chium came there fifty and two, they and their 
i servants ; twice twelve crossed the seas hither 
from Samos, from Zacynthus twice ten ; of our 
J native Ithacans, men of chief note, .are twelve 
| who aspire to the bed and crown of Penelope, 
and all these under one strong roof, a fearful 
odds against two ! My father, there is need of 
caution, lest the cup which your great mind so 
thirsts to taste of vengeance, prove bitter to 
yourself in the drinking. And therefore it 
were well that we should bethink us of some 
one who might assist us in this undertaking." 

" Thinkest thou," said his father, « if we had 
Minerva and the king of skies to be our 
friends, would their sufficiencies make strong 
our part ; or must we look out for some further 
aid yet 2 " 

" They you speak of are above the clouds," 
said Telemachus, " and are sound aids indeed ; 
as powers that not only exceed human, but 
bear the chiefest sway among the gods them- 
selves." 

Then Ulysses gave directions to his son, to 
go and mingle with the suitors, and in no wise 
to impart his secret to any, not even to the 
queen his mother, but to hold himself in readi- 
ness, and to have his weapons and his good 
armour in preparation. And he charged him 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



27 



that when he himself should come to the 
palace, as he meant to follow shortly after, and 
present himself in his beggar's likeness to the 
suitors, that whatever he should see which 
might grieve his heart, with what foul usage 
and contumelious language soever the suitors 
should receive his father, coming in that shape, 
though they should strike and drag him by the 
heels along the floors, that he should not stir 
nor make offer to oppose them, further than by 
mild words to expostulate with them, until 
Minerva from heaven should give the sign 
which should be the prelude to their destruc- 
tion. And Telemachus promising to obey his 
instructions,departed ; and the shape of Ulysses 
fell to what it had been before, and he became 
to all outward appearance a beggar, in base 
and beggarly attire. 



CHAPTER IX. 

The queen's suitors. — The battle of the beggars. — The 
armour taken down.— The meeting with Penelope. 

From the house of Eumseus the seeming 
beggar took his way, leaning on his staff, till 
he reached the palace, entering in at the hall 
where the suitors sat at meat. They in the 
pride of their feasting began to break their 
jests in mirthful manner, when they saw one 
looking so poor and so aged approach. He, who 
expected no better entertainment, was nothing 
moved at their behaviour, but, as became the 
character which he had assumed, in a suppliant 
posture crept by turns to every suitor, and held 
out his hands for some charity, with such a 
natural and beggar-resembling grace, that he 
might seem to have practised begging all his 
life ; yet there was a sort of dignity in his most 
abject stoopings, that whoever had seen him, 
would have said, If it had pleased Heaven that 
this poor man had been born a king, he would 
gracefully have filled a throne. And some 
pitied him, and some gave him alms, as their 
present humours inclined them, but the greater 
part reviled him, and bid him begone, as one 
that spoiled their feast ; for the presence of 
misery has this power with it, that while it 
stays, it can dash and overturn the mirth even 
of those who feel no pity or wish to relieve it ; 
nature bearing this witness of herself in the 
hearts of the most obdurate. 

Now Telemachus sat at meat with the suitors, 
and knew that it was the king his father, who 
in that shape begged an alms ; and when his 
father came and presented himself before him 
in turn, as he had done to the suitors one by 
one, he gave him of his own meat, which he 
had in his dish, and of his own cup to drink. 
And the suitors were past measure offended to 
see a pitiful beggar, as they esteemed him, to 
be so choicely regarded by the prince. 

Then Antinous, who was a great lord, and of 
chief note among the suitors, said, " Prince 



Telemachus does ill to encourage these wander- 
ing beggars, who go from place to place, affirm- 
ing that they have been some considerable 
persons in their time, filling the ears of such 
as hearken to them with lies, and pressing 
with their bold feet into kings' palaces. This 
is some saucy vagabond, some travelling Egyp- 
tian." 

"I see," said Ulysses, "that a poor man 
should get but little at your board : scarce 
should he get salt from your hands, if he 
brought his own meat." 

Lord Antinous, indignant to be answered 
with such sharpness by a supposed beggar, 
snatched up a stool, with which he smote 
Ulysses where the neck and shoulders join. 
This usage moved not Ulysses ; but in his 
great heart he meditated deep evils to come 
upon them all, which for a time must be kept 
close, and he went and sat himself down in the 
door- way to eat of that which was given him, 
and he said, " For life or possessions a man will 
fight, but for his belly this man smites. If a 
poor man has any god to take his part, my 
lord Antinous shall not live to be the queen's 
husband." 

Then Antinous raged highly, and threatened 
to drag him by the heels, and to rend his rags 
about his ears, if he spoke another word. 

But the other suitors did in no wise approve 
of the harsh language, nor of the blow which 
Antinous had dealt ; and some of them said, 
" Who knows but one of the deities goes about, 
hid under that poor disguise ? for in the like- 
ness of poor pilgrims the gods have many times 
descended to try the dispositions of men, 
whether they be humane or impious." While 
these things passed, Telemachus sat and ob- 
served all, but held his peace, remembering 
the instructions of his father. But secretly 
he waited for the sign which Minerva was to 
send from heaven. 

That day there followed Ulysses to the court 
one of the common sort of beggars, Irus by 
name, one that had received alms before time 
of the suitors, and was their ordinary sport, 
when they were inclined (as that day) to give 
way to mirth, to see him eat and drink ; for he 
had the appetite of six men ; and was of huge 
stature and proportions of body ; yet had in 
him no spirit nor courage of a man. This man 
thinking to curry favour with the suitors, and 
recommend himself especially to such a great 
lord as Antinous was, began to revile and scorn 
Ulysses, putting foul language upon him, and 
fairly challenging him to fight with the fist. 
But Ulysses, deeming his railings to be nothing 
more than jealousy and that envious disposition 
which beggars commonly manifest to brothers 
in their trade, mildly besought him not to trouble 
him, but to enjoy that portion which the libe- 
rality of their entertainers gave him, as he did, 
quietly ; seeing that, of their bounty, there was 
sufficient for all. 



28 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



But Irus thinking that this forbearance in 
Ulysses was nothing more than a sign of fear, 
so much the more highly stormed, and bellowed, 
and provoked him to tight ; and by this time 
the quarrel had attracted the notice of the 
suitors, who with loud laughters and shouting 
egged on the dispute, and lord Antinous swore 
by all the gods it should be a battle, and that 
in that hall the strife should be determined. 

To this the rest of the suitors with violent 
clamours acceded, and a circle was made for 
the combatants, and a fat goat was proposed as 
the victor's prize, as at the Olympic or the 
Pythian games. Then Ulysses seeing no re- 
medy, or being not unwilling that the suitors 
should behold some proof of that strength 
which ere long in their own persons they were 
to taste of, stripped himself, and prepared for 
the combat. But first he demanded that he 
should have fair play shown him, that none in 
that assembly should aid his opponent, or take 
part against him, for being an old man they 
might easily crush him with their strengths. 
And Telemachus passed his word that no foul 
play should be shown him, but that each party 
should be left to their own unassisted strengths, 
and to this he made Antinous and the rest of 
the suitors swear. 

But when Ulysses had laid aside his gar- 
ments, and was bare to the waist, all the 
beholders admired at the goodly sight of his 
large shoulders being of such exquisite shape 
and whiteness, and at his great and brawny 
bosom, and the youthful strength which seemed 
to remain in a man thought so old ; and they 
said, What limbs and what sinews he has ! and 
coward fear seized on the mind of that great 
vast beggar, and he dropped his threats, and 
his big words, and would have fled, but lord 
Antinous stayed him, and threatened him that if 
he declined the combat, he would put him in a 
ship, and land him on the shores where king 
Echetus reigned, the roughest tyrant which at 
that time the world contained, and who had 
that antipathy to rascal beggars, such as he, 
that when any landed on his coast, he would 
crop their ears and noses and give them to the 
dogs to tear. So Irus, in whom fear of king 
Echetus prevailed above the fear of Ulysses, 
addressed himself to fight. But Ulysses, pro- 
voked to be engaged in so odious a strife with 
a fellow of his base conditions, and loathing 
longer to be made a spectacle to entertain the 
eyes of his foes, with one blow, which he struck 
him beneath the ear, so shattered the teeth 
and jaw-bone of this soon baffled coward, that 
he laid him sprawling in the dust, with small 
stomach or ability to renew the contest. Then 
raising him on his feet, he led him bleeding 
and sputtering to the door, and put his staff 
into his hand, and bid him go use his command 
upon dogs and swine, but not presume himself 
to be lord of the guests another time, nor of 
the beggary ! 



The suitors applauded in their vain minds 
the issue of the contest, and rioted in mirth at 
the expense of poor Irus, who they vowed 
should be forthwith embarked, and sent to 
king Echetus ; and they bestowed thanks on 
Ulysses for ridding the court of that unsavory 
morsel, as they called him ; but in their in- 
ward souls they would not have cared if Irus 
had been victor, and Ulysses had taken the 
foil, but it was mirth to them to see the beg- 
gars fight. In such pastimes and light enter- 
tainments the day wore away. 

When evening was come, the suitors betook 
themselves to music and dancing. And 
Ulysses leaned his back against a pillar from 
which certain lamps hung which gave light to 
the dancers, and he made show of watching 
the dancers, but very different thoughts were 
in his head. And as he stood near the lamps, 
the light fell upon his head, which was thin of 
hair and bald, as an old man's. And Eury- 
machus, a suitor, taking occasion from some 
words which were spoken before, scoffed and 
said, " Now I know for a certainty that some 
god lurks under the poor and beggarly appear- 
ance of this man, for as he stands by the lampSj 
his sleek head throws beams around it, like as 
it were a glory." And another said, " He 
passes his time too not much unlike the gods, 
lazily living exempt from labour, taking offer- 
ings of men." " I warrant," said Eurymachus 
again, "he could not raise a fence or dig a 
ditch for his livelihood, if a man would hire 
him to work in a garden." 

" I wish," said Ulysses, u that you who speak 
this, and myself, were to be tried at any task- 
work, that I had a good crooked scythe put in 
my hand, that was sharp and strong, and you 
such another, where the grass grew longest, to 
be up by daybreak, mowing the meadows till 
the sun went down, not tasting of food till we 
had finished, or that we were set to plough four 
acres in one day of good glebe land, to see 
whose furrows were evenest and cleanest, or 
that we might have one wrestling-bout together, 
or that in our right hands a good steel-headed 
lance were placed, to try whose blows fell 
heaviest and thickest upon the adversary's 
head-piece. I would cause you such work, as 
you should have small reason to reproach me 
with being slack at work. But you would do 
well to spare me this reproach, and to save 
your strength, till the owner of this house 
shall return, till the day when Ulysses shall 
return, when returning he shall enter upon his 
birth-right." 

This was a galling speech to those suitors, to 
whom Ulysses' return was indeed the thing 
which they most dreaded ; and a sudden fear 
fell upon their souls, as if they were sensible 
of the real presence of that man who did 
indeed stand amongst them, but not in that 
form as they might know him ; and Eury- 
machus, incensed, snatched a massy cup which 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



29 



stood on a table near, and hurled it at the head 
of the supposed beggar, and but narrowly 
missed the hitting of him ; and all the suitors 
rose, as at once, to thrust him out of the hall, 
which they said his beggarly presence and his 
rude speeches had profaned. But Telemachus 
cried to them to forbear, and not to presume to 
lay hands upon a wretched man to whom he 
had promised protection. He asked if they 
were mad, to mix such abhorred uproar with 
his feasts. He bade them take their food and 
their wine, to sit up or to go to bed at their free 
pleasures, so long as he should give licence to 
that freedom ; but why should they abuse his 
banquet, or let the words which a poor beggar 
spake have power to move their spleens so 
fiercely ? 

They bit their lips and frowned for anger, to 
be checked so by a youth ; nevertheless for 
that time they had the grace to abstain, either 
for shame, or that Minerva had infused into 
them a terror of Ulysses' son. 

So that day's feast was concluded without 
bloodshed, and the suitors, tired with their 
sports, departed severally each man to his 
apartment. Only Ulysses and Telemachus 
remained. And now Telemachus by his 
father's direction went and brought down into 
the hall armour and lances from the armoury : 
for Ulysses said, "On the morrow we shall 
have need of them." And moreover he said, 
"If any one shall ask why you have taken 
them down, say, it is to clean them and scour 
them from the rust which they have gathered 
since the owner of this house went for Troy." 
And as Telemachus stood by the armour, the 
lights were all gone out, and it was pitch-dark, 
and the armour gave out glistering beams as 
of fire ; and he said to his father, " The pillars 
of the house are on fire." And his father said, 
"It is the gods who sit above the stars, and have 
power to make the night as light as the day." 
And he took it for a good omen. And Telema- 
chus fell to cleaning and sharpening of the lances. 

Now Ulysses had not seen his wife Penelope 
in all the time since his return ; for the queen 
did not care to mingle with the suitors at their 
banquets, but, as became one that had been 
Ulysses' wife, kept much in private, spinning 
and doing her excellent housewiveries among 
her maids in the remote apartments of the 
palace. Only upon solemn days she would 
come down and show herself to the suitors. 
And Ulysses was filled with a longing desire 
to see his wife again, whom for twenty years 
he had not beheld, and he softly stole through 
the known passages of his beautiful house, till 
he came where the maids were lighting the 
queen through a stately gallery, that led to the 
chamber where she slept. And when the 
maids saw Ulysses, they said, " It is the beggar 
who came to the court to-day, about whom all 
that uproar was stirred up in the hall : what 
does he here ?" But Penelope gave command- 



ment that, he should be brought before her, for 
she said, " It may be that he has travelled, 
and has heard something concerning Ulysses." 

Then was Ulysses right glad to hear himself 
named by his queen, to find himself in no 
wise forgotten, nor her great love towards him 
decayed in all that time that he had been 
away. And he stood before his queen, and she 
knew him not to be Ulysses, but supposed that 
he had been some poor traveller. And she 
asked him of what country he was. 

He told her (as he had before told toEumseus) 
that he was a Cretan born, and however poor 
and cast down he now seemed, no less a man 
than brother to Idomeneus, who was grandson 
to king Minos ; and though he now wanted 
bread, he had once had it in his power to feast 
Ulysses. Then he feigned how Ulysses, sailing 
for Troy, was forced by stress of weather to 
put his fleet in at a port of Crete, where for 
twelve days he was his guest, and entertained 
by him with all befitting guest-rites. And he 
described the very garments which Ulysses 
had on, by which Penelope knew he had seen 
her lord. 

In this manner Ulysses told his wife many 
tales of himself, at most but painting, but 
painting so near to the life, that the feeling of 
that which she took in at her ears became so 
strong, that the kindly tears ran down her fair 
cheeks, while she thought upon her lord, dead 
as she thought him, and heavily mourned the 
loss of him whom she missed, whom she could 
not find, though in very deed he stood so near 
her. 

Ulysses was moved to see her weep, but he 
kept his own eyes as dry as iron or horn in 
their lids, putting a bridle upon his strong 
passion, that it should not issue to sight. 

Then told he how he had lately been at the 
court of Thesprotia, and what he had learned 
concerning Ulysses there, in order as he had 
delivered to Eumseus : and Penelope was won 
to believe that there might be a possibility of 
Ulysses being alive, and she said, " I dreamed 
a dream this morning. Methought I had twenty 
household fowl which did eat wheat steeped in 
water from my hand, and there came suddenly 
from the clouds a crook-beaked hawk who 
soused on them and killed them all, trussing 
their necks, then took his flight back up to the 
clouds. And in my dream methought that I 
wept and made great moan for my fowls, 
and for the destruction which the hawk had 
made ; and my maids came about me to com- 
fort me. And in the height of my griefs the 
hawk came back, and lighting upon the beam 
of my chamber, he said to me in a man's voice, 
which sounded strangely even in my dream, to 
hear a hawk to speak : Be of good cheer, he 
said, daughter of Icarius ! for this is no dream 
which thou hast seen, but that which shall 
happen to thee indeed. Those household fowl 
which thou lamentest so without reason, are 



30 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



the suitors who devour thy substance, even as 
| thou sawest the fowl eat from thy hand, and 
the hawk is thy husband, who is coming to 
give death to the suitors. — And I awoke, and 
went to see to my fowls if they were alive, 
whom I found eating wheat from their troughs, 
all well and safe as before my dream." 

Then said Ulysses, " This dream can endure 
no other interpretation than that which the 
hawk gave to it, who is your lord, and who is 
coming quickly to effect all that his words told 
you." 

" Your words," she said, " my old guest, are 
so sweet, that would you sit and please me 
with your speech, my ears would never let my 
eyes close their spheres for very joy of your 
discourse ; but none that is merely mortal can 
live without the death of sleep, so the gods 
who are without death themselves have or- 
dained it, to keep the memory of our mortality 
in our minds, while we experience that as much 
as we live we die every day : in which con- 
sideration I will ascend my bed, which I have 
nightly watered with my tears since he that 
was the joy of it departed for that bad city :" 
she so speaking, becaxise she could not bring 
her lips to name the name of Troy so much 
hated. So for that night they parted, Penelope 
to her bed, and Ulysses to his son, and to the 
armour and the lances in the hall, where they 
sat up all night cleaning and watching by the 



CHAPTER X. 

The madness from above. — The bow of Ulysses. — The 
slaughter. — The conclusion. 

"When daylight appeared, a tumultuous con- 
course of the suitors again filled the hall ; and 
some wondered, and some inquired what meant 
that glittering store of armour and lances which 
lay on heaps by the entry of the door ; and to all 
that asked Telemachus made reply, that he had 
caused them to be taken down to cleanse them of 
the rust and of the stain which they had con- 
tracted by lying so long unused, even ever 
since his father went for Troy ; and with that 
answer their minds were easily satisfied. So 
to their feasting and vain rioting again they 
fell. Ulysses by Telemachus's order had a 
seat and a mess assigned him in the door-way, 
and he had his eye ever on the lances. And it 
moved gall in some of the great ones there 
present, to have their feast still dulled with 
the society of that wretched beggar as they 
deemed him, and they ' reviled and spurned 
at him with their feet. Only there was one 
Philaetius, who had something a better nature 
than the rest, that spake kindly to him, and had 
his age in respect. He coming up to Ulysses, 
took him by the hand with a kind of fear, as if 
touched exceedingly with imagination of his 
great worth, and said thus to him, " Hail ! 



father stranger ! my brows have sweat to see 
the injuries which you have received, and my 
eyes have broke forth in tears, when I have 
only thought that such being oftentimes the lot 
of worthiest men, to this plight Ulysses may 
be reduced, and that he now may wander from 
place to place as you do ; for such who are 
compelled by need to range here and there, 
and have no firm home to fix their feet upon, 
God keeps them in this earth, as under water ; 
so are they kept down and depressed. And 
a dark thread is sometimes spun in the fates of 
kings." 

At this bare likening of the beggar to UJysses, 
Minerva from heaven made the suitors for 
foolish joy to go mad, and roused them to such 
a laughter as would never stop ; they laughed 
without power of ceasing, their eyes stood full 
of tears for violent joys ; but fears and horrible 
misgivings succeeded : and one among them 
stood up and prophesied : <{ Ah, wretches !" he 
said, " what madness from heaven has seized 
you, that you can laugh ? see you not that 
your meat drops blood ? a night, like the night 
of death, wraps you about, you shriek without 
knowing it ; your eyes thrust forth tears ; the 
fixed walls, and the beam that bears the whole 
house up, fall blood ; ghosts choke up the 
entry ; full is the hall with apparitions of 
murdered men ; under your feet is hell ; the 
sun falls from heaven, and it is midnight at 
noon." But like men whom the gods had in- 
fatuated to their destruction, they mocked at 
his fears, and Eurymachus said, " This man is 
surely mad, conduct him forth into the market- 
place, set him in the light, for he dreams that 
'tis night within the house." 

But Theoclymenus (for that was the pro- 
phet's name), whom Minerva had graced with 
a prophetic spirit, that he foreseeing might 
avoid the destruction which awaited them, 
answered and said : " Eurymachus, I will not 
require a guide of thee, for I have eyes and 
ears, the use of both my feet, and a sane mind 
within me, and with these I will go forth of 
the doors, because I know the imminent evils 
which await all you that stay, by reason of 
this poor guest who is a favourite with all the 
gods." So saying he turned his back upon 
those inhospitable men, and went away home, 
and never returned to the palace. 

These words which he spoke were not un- 
heard by Telemachus, who kept still his eye 
upon his father, expecting fervently when he 
would give the sign, which was to precede the 
slaughter of the suitors. 

They dreaming of no such thing, fell sweetly 
to their dinner, as joying in the great store of 
banquet which was heaped in full tables about 
them ; but there reigned not a bitterer banquet 
planet in all heaven, than that which hung 
over them this day by secret destination of 
Minerva. 

There was a bow which Ulysses left when 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



3i 



he went for Troy. It had lain by since that 
time, out of use and unstrung, for no man had 
strength to draw that bow, save Ulysses. So 
it had remained, as a monument of the great 
strength of its master. This bow, with the 
quiver of arrows belonging thereto, Telemachus 
had brought down from the armoury on the 
last night along with the lances ; and now 
Minerva, intending to do Ulysses an honour, 
put it into the mind of Telemachus, to propose 
to the suitors to try who was strongest to draw 
that bow ; and he promised that to the man 
who should be able to draw that bow, his 
mother should be given in marriage ; Ulysses' 
wife the prize to him who should bend the bow 
of Ulysses. 

There was great strife and emulation stirred 
up among the suitors at those words of the 
prince Telemachus. And to grace her son's 
words, and to confirm the promise which he 
had made, Penelope came and showed herself 
that day to the suitors ; and Minerva made her 
that she appeared never so comely in their 
sight as that day, and they were inflamed with 
the beholding of so much beauty, proposed as 
the price of so great manhood ; and they cried 
out, that if all those heroes who sailed to 
Colchos for the rich purchase of the golden- 
fleeced ram, had seen earth's richer prize, 
Penelope, they would not have made their 
voyage, but would have vowed their valours 
and their lives to her, for she was at all parts 
faultless. 

And she said, " The gods have taken my 
beauty from me, since my lord went for Troy." 
But Telemachus willed his mother to depart 
and not be present at that contest, for he said, 
" It may be, some rougher strife shall chance 
of this, than may be expedient for a woman to 
witness." And she retired, she and her maids, 
and left the hall. 

Then the bow was brought into the midst, 
and a mark was set up by prince Telemachus : 
and lord Antinous as the chief among the 
suitors had the first offer, and he took the bow 
and fitting an arrow to the string, he strove to 
bend it, but not with all his might and main 
could he once draw together the ends of that 
tough bow ; and when he found how vain a 
thing it was to endeavour to draw Ulysses' 
bow, he desisted, blushing for shame and for 
mere anger. Then Eurymachus adventured, 
but with no better success ; but as it had torn 
the hands of Antinous, so did the bow tear 
and strain his hands, and marred his delicate 
fingers, yet could he not once stir the string. 
Then called he to the attendants to bring fat 
and unctuous matter, which melting at the 
fire, he dipped the bow therein, thinking to 
supple it and make it more pliable, but not 
with all the helps of art could he succeed in 
making it to move. Alter him Liodes, and 
Amphinomus, and Polybus, and Eurynomus, 
and Polyctorides, assayed their strength, but 



not any one of them, or of the rest of those 
aspiring suitors, had any better luck : yet not 
the meanest of them there but thought himself 
well worthy of Ulysses' wife, though to shoot 
with Ulysses' bow the completest champion 
among them was by proof found too feeble. 

Then Ulysses prayed them that he might 
have leave to try ; and immediately a clamour 
was raised among the suitors, because of his 
petition, and they scorned and swelled with 
rage at his presumption, and that a beggar 
should seek to contend in a game of such 
noble mastery. But Telemachus ordered that 
the bow should be given him, and that he 
should have leave to try, since they had 
failed ; " for," he said, " the bow is mine, to 
give or to withhold : " and none durst gainsay 
the prince. 

Then Ulysses gave a sign to his son, and he 
commanded the doors of the hall to be made 
fast, and all wondered at his words, but none 
could divine the cause. And Ulysses took the 
bow into his hands, and before he essayed to 
bend it, he surveyed it at all parts, to see 
whether, by long lying by, it had contracted 
any stiffness which hindered the drawing ; 
and as he was busied in the curious surveying 
of his bow, some of the suitors mocked him 
and said, "Past doubt this man is a right 
cunning archer, and knows his craft well. See 
how he turns it over and over, and looks into 
it, as if he could see through the wood." And 
others said, " We wish some one would tell out 
gold into our laps but for so long a time as he 
shall be in drawing of that string." But when 
he had spent some little time in making proof 
of the bow,andhad found it to be in good plight, 
like as an harper in tuning of his harp draws 
out a string, with such ease or much more did 
Ulysses draw to the head the string of his own 
tough bow, and in letting of it go, it twanged 
with such a shrill noise as a swallow makes 
when it sings through the air : which so much 
amazed the suitors, that their colours came 
and went, and the skies gave out a noise of 
thunder, which at heart cheered Ulysses, for 
he knew that now his long labours by the dis- 
posal of the fates drew to an end. Then 
fitted he an arrow to the bow, and drawing it 
to the head, he sent it right to the mark which 
the prince had set up. "Which done, he said 
to Telemachus, "You have got no disgrace 
yet by your guest, for I have struck the mark 
I shot at, and gave myself no such trouble in 
teazing the bow with fat and fire, as these men 
did, but have made proof that my strength is 
not impaired, nor my age so weak and con- 
temptible as these were pleased to think it. 
But come, the day going down calls us to 
supper, after which succeed poem and harp, 
and all delights which use to crown princely 
banquetings." 

So saying, he beckoned to his son, who 
straight girt his sword to his side, and took 



32 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



one of the lances (of which there lay great 
store from the armoury) in his hand, and, 
armed at all points, advanced towards his 
father. 

The upper rags which Ulysses wore fell from 
his shoulder, and his own kingly likeness 
returned, when he rushed to the great hall 
door with bow and quiver full of shafts, which 
down at his feet he poured, and in bitter words 
presignified his deadly intent to the suitors. 
"Thus far," he said, "this contest has been 
decided harmless : now for us there rests 
another mark, harder to hit, but which my 
hands shall essay notwithstanding, if Phoebus 
god of archers be pleased to give me the 
mastery." With that he let fly a deadly 
arrow at Antinous, which pierced him in the 
throat, as he was in the act of lifting a cup of 
wine to his mouth. Amazement seized the 
suitors, as their great champion fell dead, and 
they raged highly against Ulysses, and said 
that it should prove the dearest shaft which 
he ever let fly, for he had slain a man 
whose like breathed not in any part of the 
kingdom : and they flew to their arms, and 
would have seized the lances, but Minerva 
struck them with dimness of sight that they 
went erring up and down the hall, not know- 
ing where to find them. Yet so infatuated 
were they by the displeasure of Heaven, that 
they did not see the imminent peril which 
impended over them, but every man believed 
that this accident had happened beside the 
intention of the doer. Fools ! to think by 
shutting their eyes to evade destiny, or that 
any other cup remained for them, but that 
which their great Antinous had tasted ! 

Then Ulysses revealed himself to all in that 
presence, and that he was the man whom they 
held to be dead at Troy, whose palace they 
had usurped, whose wife in his life-time they 
had sought in impious marriage, and that for 
this reason destruction was come upon them. 
And he dealt his deadly arrows among them, 
and there was no avoiding him, nor escaping 
from his horrid person, and Telemachus by his 
side plied them thick with those murderous 
lances from which there was no retreat, till 
fear itself made them valiant, and danger gave 
them eyes to understand the peril ; then they 
which had swords drew them, and some with 
shields, that could find them, and some with 
tables and benches snatched up in haste, rose 
in a mass to overwhelm and crush those two ; 
yet they singly bestirred themselves like men 
and defended themselves against that great 
host, and through tables, shields and all, right 
through the arrows of Ulysses clove, and the 
irresistible lances of Telemachus ; and many 
lay dead, and all had wounds, and Minerva in 
the likeness of a bird sate upon the beam 
which went across the hall, clapping her wings 
with a fearful noise, and sometimes the great 
bird would fly among them, cuffing at the 



swords and at the lances, and up and down the 
hall would go, beating her wings, and troubling 
everything, that it was frightful to behold, and 
it frayed the blood from the cheeks of those 
Heaven-hated suitors : but to Ulysses and his 
son she appeared in her own divine similitude, 
with her snake-fringed shield, a goddess armed, 
fighting their battles. Nor did that dreadful 
pair desist, till they had laid all their foes at 
their feet. At their feet they lay in shoals ; 
like fishes, when the fishermen break up their 
nets, so they lay gasping and sprawling at the 
feet of Ulysses and his son. And Ulysses 
remembered the prediction of Tiresias, which 
said that he was to perish by his own guests, 
unless he slew those who knew him not. 

Then certain of the queen's household went 
up and told Penelope what had happened, 
and how her lord Ulysses was come home, and 
had slain the suitors. But she gave no heed 
to their words, but thought that some frenzy 
possessed them, or that they mocked her : for 
it is the property of such extremes of sorrow 
as she had felt, not to believe when any great ■ 
joy cometh. And she rated and chid them 
exceedingly for troubling her. But they the 
more persisted in their asseverations of the 
truth of what they had affirmed ; and some of 
them had seen the slaughtered bodies of the 
suitors dragged forth of the hall. And they 
said, " That poor guest whom you talked with 
last night was Ulysses." Then she was yet 
more fully persuaded that they mocked her, 
and she wept. But they said, " This thing is 
true which we have told. We sat within, in 
an inner room in the palace, and the doors of 
the hall were shut on us, but we heard the 
cries and the groans of the men that were 
killed, but saw nothing, till at length your son 
called to us to come in, and entering we saw 
Ulysses standing in the midst of the slaugh- 
tered." But she persisting in her unbelief, 
said, that it was some god which had deceived 
them to think it was the person of Ulysses. 

By this time Telemachus and his father had 
cleansed their hands from the slaughter, and 
were come to where the queen was talking 
with those of her household ; and when she 
saw Ulysses, she stood motionless, and had no 
power to speak, sudden surprise and joy and 
fear and many passions so strove within her. 
Sometimes she was clear that it was her hus- 
band that she saw, and sometimes the alteration 
which twenty years had made in his person 
(yet that was not much) perplexed her that 
she knew not what to think, and for joy she 
could not believe, and yet for joy she would 
not but believe ; and, above all, that sudden 
change from a beggar to a king troubled 
her, and wrought uneasy scruples in her mind. 
But Telemachus, seeing her strangeness, blamed 
her, and called her an ungentle and tyrannous 
mother ! and said that she showed a too great 
curiousness of modesty, to abstain from em- 



THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES 



33 



bracing his father, and to have doubts of his 
person, when to all present it was evident that 
he was the very real and true Ulysses. 

Then she mistrusted no longer, but ran and 
fell upon Ulysses' neck, and said, " Let not 
my husband be angry, that I held off so long 
with strange delays ; it is the gods, who sever- 
ing us for so long time, have caused this un- 
seemly distance in me. If Menelaus's wife 
had used half my caution, she would never 
have taken so freely to a stranger's bed ; and 
she might have spared us all these plagues 
which have come upon us through her shame- 
less deed." 

These words with which Penelope excused 
herself, wrought more affection in Ulysses than 
if upon a first sight she had given up herself 
implicitly to his embraces ; and he wept for 
joy to possess a wife so discreet, so answering 
to his own staid mind, that had a depth of wit 
proportioned to his own, and one that held 
chaste virtue at so high a price ; and he thought 
the possession of such a one cheaply purchased 
with the loss of all Circe's delights,and Calypso's 



immortality of joys ; and his long labours and 
his severe sufferings past seemed as nothing, 
now they were crowned with the enjoyment 
of his virtuous and true wife Penelope. And 
as sad men at sea, whose ship has gone to pieces 
nigh shore, swimming for their lives, all 
drenched in foam and brine, crawl up to some 
poor patch of land, which they take possession 
of with as great a joy as if they had the world 
given them in fee, with such delight did this 
chaste wife cling to her lord restored, till the 
dark night fast coming on reminded her of that 
more intimate and happy union when in her 
long-widowed bed she should once again clasp 
a living Ulysses. 

So from that time the land had rest from the 
suitors. And the happy Ithacans with songs 
and solemn sacrifices of praise to the gods 
celebrated the return of Ulysses : for he that 
had been so long absent was returned to wreak 
the evil upon the heads of the doers ; in the 
place where they had done the evil, there 
wreaked he his vengeance upon them. 



END OF THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 



MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL; 



THE HISTORY OF SEVERAL YOUNG LADIES, 



RELATED BY THEMSELVES. 



CONTENTS. 

[Those marked with an asterisk are by Charles Lamb.~\ 

PAGE 

I. ELIZABETH VILLIERS ; OR, THE SAILOR UNCLE 39 

II. LOUISA MANNERS; THE FARM-HOUSE 43 

III. ANN WITHERS: THE CHANGELING . ' , 46 

IV. ELINOR FORESTER : THE FATHER'S WEDDING-DAY 53 

V. MARGARET GREEN: THE YOUNG MAHOMETAN 55 

VI. EMILY BARTON: VISIT TO THE COUSINS 58 

VII. MARIA HOWE: THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES* C 2 

VIII. CHARLOTTE WILMOT : THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER 65 

IX. SUSAN YATES : FIRST GOING TO CHURCH * . . . . ... , . .67 

X. ARABELLA HARDY: THE SEA VOYAGE* 69 



DEDICATION 

TO 

THE YOUNG LADIES AT AMWELL SCHOOL. 



My dear young Friends, 
Though released from the business of the school, the absence of your Governess confines me to Amwell 
during the vacation. I cannot better employ my leisure hours than in contributing to the amusement of 
you, my kind Pupils, who, by your affectionate attentions to my instructions, have rendered a life of labour 
pleasant to me. 

On your return to school, I hope to have a fair copy ready to present to each of you, of your own 
biographical conversations last winter. 

Accept my thanks for the approbation you were pleased to express, when I offered to become your 
amanuensis. I hope you will find I have executed the office with a tolerably faithful pen, as you 
know I took notes each day during those conversations, and arranged my materials after you were retired 
to rest. 

I begin from the day our school commenced. It was opened by your Governess for the first time, on 

the day of February. I pass over your several arrivals on the morning of that day. Your Governess 

received you from your friends in her own parlour. 

Every carriage that drove from the door I knew had left a sad heart behind. Your eyes were red with 
weeping, when your Governess introduced me to you as the teacher she had engaged to instruct you. She 
next desired me to show you into the room which we now call the play-room. " The Ladies," said she, 
" may play and amuse themselves, and be as happy as they please this evening, that they may be well 
acquainted with each other before they enter the school-room to-morrow morning." 

The traces of tears were on every cheek, and I also was sad ; for I, like you, had parted from my friends, 
and the duties of my profession were new to me ; yet I felt that it was improper to give way to my own 
melancholy thoughts. I knew that it was my first duty to divert the solitary young strangers ; for I 
considered that this was very unlike the entrance to an old-established school, where there is always some 
good-natured girl who will show attentions to a new scholar, and take pleasure in initiating her into the 
customs and amusements of the place. These, thought I, have their own amusements to invent, their own 
customs to establish. How unlike too is this forlorn meeting to old school-fellows returning after the 
holidays, when mutual greetings soon lighten the memory of parting sorrow ! 

I invited you to draw near a bright fire which blazed in the chimney, and looked the only cheerful thing 
in the room. 

During our first solemn silence, which, you may remember, was only broken by my repeated requests that 
you would make a smaller and still smaller circle, till I saw the fire-place fairly inclosed round, the idea 
came into my mind, which has since been a source of amusement to you in the recollection, and to myself 
in particular has been of essential benefit, as it enabled me to form a just estimate of the dispositions of 
you, my young Pupils, and assisted me to adopt my plan of future instructions to each individual 
temper. 



38 DEDICATION. 



An introduction to a point we wish to carry we always feel to be an awkward affair, and generally 
execute it in an awkward manner ; so I believe I did then ; for when I imparted this idea to you, I think I 
prefaced it rather too formally for such young Auditors ; for I began with telling you, that I had read in old 
authors, that it was not unfrequent in former times, when strangers were assembled together, as we might be, 
for them to amuse themselves with telling stories, either of their own lives, or the adventures of others. 
" Will you allow me, Ladies," I continued, " to persuade you to amuse yourselves in this way ? You will 
not then look so unsociably upon each other ; for we find that these strangers, of whom we read, were as' well 
acquainted before the conclusion of the first story, as if they had known each other many years. Let me 
prevail upon you to relate some little anecdotes of your own lives. Fictitious tales we can read in books, 
and they were therefore better adapted to conversation in those times when books of amusement were more 
scarce than they are at present." 

After many objections of not knowing what to say or how to begin, which I overcame by assuring you how 
easy it would be, for that every person is naturally eloquent when they are the hero or heroine of their own 
tale ; — the Who should begin ? was next in question. 

I proposed to draw lots, which formed a little amusement of itself. Miss Manners, who till then had been 
the saddest of the sad, began to brighten, and said it was just like drawing king and queen, and began to tell 
us where she passed last twelfth-day ; but as her narration must have interfered with the more important 
business of the lottery, I advised her to postpone it, till it came to her turn to favour us with the history of 
her life, when it would appear in its proper order. The first number fell to the share of Miss Villiers, whose 
joy at drawing what we called the first prize, was tempered with shame, at appearing as the first historian in 
the company. She wished she had not been the very first ; she had passed all her life in a retired village, and 
had nothing to relate of herself that could give the least entertainment ; she had not the least idea in the 
world where to begin. 

" Begin," said I, "with your name, for that at present is unknown to us. Tell us the first thing you 
can remember ; relate whatever happened to make a great impression on you when you were very young, 
and if you find you can connect your story till your arrival here to-day, I am sure we shall listen to you 
with pleasure ; and if you like to break off, and only treat us with a part of your history, we will excuse 
you, with many thanks for the amusement which you have afforded us ; and the young lady who has drawn 
the second number will, I hope, take her turn with the same indulgence, to relate either all, or any part of 
the events of her life, as best pleases her own fancy, or as she finds she can manage it with the most ease to 
herself." — Encouraged by this offer of indulgence, Miss Villiers began. 

If in my report of her story, or in any which follow, I shall appear to make her or you speak an older 
language than it seems probable that you should use, speaking in your own words, it must be remembered, 
that what is very proper and becoming when spoken, requires to be arranged with some little difference 
before it can be set down in writing. Little inaccuracies must be pared away, and the whole must assume 
a more formal and correct appearance. My own way of thinking, I am sensible, will too often intrude 
itself ; but I have endeavoured to preserve, as exactly as I could, your own words, and your own peculiarities 
of style and manner, and to approve myself 

Your faithful historiographer as well as true friend, 

M. B. 



MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL 



i. 



ELIZABETH VILLIERS. 



My father is the curate of a village church, 
about five miles from Amwell. I was born in 
the parsonage-house, which joins the church- 
yard. The first thing I can remember was my 
father teaching me the alphabet from the letters 
on a tombstone that stood at the head of my 
mother's grave. I used to tap at my father's 
study-door : I think I now hear him say, 
" Who is there ? — What do you want, little 
girl ?" " Go and see mamma. Go and learn 
pretty letters." Many times in the day would 
my father lay aside his books and his papers to 
lead me to this spot, and make me point to the 
letters, and then set me to spell syllables and 
words : in this manner, the epitaph on my 
mother's tomb being my primer and my spell- 
ing-book, I learned to read. 

I was one day sitting on a step placed across 
the churchyard stile, when a gentleman pass- 
ing by, heard me distinctly repeat the letters 
which formed my mother's name, and then say, 
Elizabeth Villiers, with a firm tone, as if I had 
performed some great matter. This gentleman 
was my uncle James, my mother's brother : he 
was a lieutenant in the navy, and had left 
England a few weeks after the marriage of my 
father and mother, and now, returned home 
from a long sea-voyage, he was coming to visit 
my mother ; no tidings of her decease having 
reached him, though she had been dead more 
than a twelvemonth. 

When my uncle saw' me sitting on the stile, 
and heard me pronounce my mother's name, he 
looked earnestly in my face, and began to fancy 
a resemblance to his sister, and to think I might 
be her child. I was too intent on my employ- 
ment to observe him, and went spelling on. 
u Who has taught you to spell so prettily, my 
little maid ?" said my uncle. " Mamma," I 
replied ; for I had an idea that the words on 
the tombstone were somehow a part of mamma, 
and that she had taught me. " And who is 
mamma?" asked my uncle. "Elizabeth Vil- 
liers," I replied ; and then my uncle called me 



his dear little niece, and said he would go with 
me to mamma : he took hold of my hand, in- 
tending to lead me home, delighted that he 
had found out who I was, because he imagined 
it would be such a pleasant surprise to his 
sister to see her little daughter bringing home 
her long-lost sailor uncle. 

I agreed to take him to mamma, but we had 
a dispute about the way thither. My uncle was 
for going along the road which led directly up 
to our house : I pointed to the churchyard, and 
said, that was the way to mamma. Though 
impatient of any delay, he was not willing to 
contest the point with his new relation ; there- 
fore, he lifted me over the stile, and was then 
going to take me along the path to a gate he 
knew was at the end of our garden ; but no, I 
would not go that way neither : letting go his 
hand, I said, " You do not know the way, — 
I will show you :" and making what haste I 
could among the long grass and thistles, and 
jumping over the low graves, he said, as he 
followed what he called my wayward steps, 
" What a positive soul this little niece of mine 
is ! I knew the way to your mother's house 
before you were born, child." At last I stopped 
at my mother's grave, and pointing to the 
tombstone, said, "Here is mamma !" in a voice 
of exultation, as if I had now convinced him 
that I knew the way best : I looked up in his 
face to see him acknowledge his mistake ; but 
oh ! what a face of sorrow did I see ! I was so 
frightened, that I have but an imperfect recol- 
lection of what followed. I remember I pulled 
his coat, and cried " Sir, sir !" and tried to 
move him. I knew not what to do : my mind 
was in a strange confusion : I thought I had 
done something wrong, in bringing the gentle- 
man to mamma to make him cry so sadly ; but 
what it was I could not tell. This grave had 
always been a scene of delight to me. In the 
house my father would often be weary of my 
prattle, and send me from him : but here he 
was all my own. I might say anything, and 



40 



ELIZABETH VILLXERS. 



be as frolicsome as I pleased here ; all was 
cheerfulness and good-humour in our visits to 
mamma, as we called it. My father would tell 
me how quietly mamma slept there, and that 
he and his little Betsy would one day sleep 
beside mamma in that grave ; and when I went 
to bed, as I laid my little head on the pillow, I 
used to wish I was sleeping in the grave with 
my papa and mamma : and in my childish 
dreams I used to fancy myself there ; and it 
was a place within the ground, all smooth, and 
soft, and green. I never made out any figure 
of mamma, but still it was the tombstone, and 
papa, and the smooth green grass, and my 
head resting upon the elbow of my father. 

How long my uncle remained in this agony 
of grief I know not : to me it seemed a very 
long time : at last he took me in his arms, and 
held me so tight that I began to cry, and ran 
home to my father, and told him that a gentle- 
man was crying about mamma's pretty letters. 

No doubt it was a very affecting meeting 
between my father and my uncle. I remember 
that it was the very first day I ever saw my 
father weep : that I was in sad .trouble, and 
went into the kitchen and told Susan, our ser- 
vant, that papa was crying ; and she wanted 
to keep me with her, that I might not disturb 
the conversation : but I would go back to the 
parlour to poor papa, and I went in softly, and 
crept between my father's knees. My uncle 
offered to take me in his arms, but I turned 
sullenly from him, and clung closer to my 
father, having conceived a dislike to my uncle, 
because he had made my father cry. 

Now I first learned that my mother's death 
was a heavy affliction ; for I heard my father 
tell a melancholy story of her long illness, her 
death, and what he had suffered from her loss. 
My uncle said, what a sad thing it was for my 
father to be left with such a young child : but 
my father replied, his little Betsy was all his 
comfort, and that but for me he should have 
died with grief. How I could be any comfort 
to my father struck me with wonder. I knew 
I was pleased when he played and talked with 
me ; but I thought that was all goodness and 
favour done to me, and I had no notion how I 
could make any part of his happiness. The 
sorrow I now heard he had suffered was as new 
and strange to me. I had no idea that he had 
ever been unhappy ; his voice was always kind 
and cheerful ; I had never before seen him 
weep, or show any such signs of grief as those 
in which I used to express my little troubles. 
My thoughts on these subjects were confused 
and childish : but from that time I never ceased 
pondering on the sad story of my dead mamma. 

The next day I went, by mere habit, to the 
study door, to call papa to the beloved grave ; 
my mind misgave me, and I could not tap at 
the door. I went backwards and forwards 
between the kitchen and the study, and what 
to do with myself I did not know. My uncle 



met me in the passage, and said, " Betsy, will 
you come and walk with me in the garden ?" 
This I refused, for this was not what I wanted, 
but the old amusement of sitting on the grave, 
and talking to papa. My uncle tried to per- 
suade me, but still I said, " No, no," and ran 
crying into the kitchen. As he followed me 
in there, Susan said, " This child is so fretful 
to-day, I do not know what to do with her." 
" Ay," said my uncle, " I suppose my poor 
brother spoils her, having but one." This 
reflection on my papa made me quite in a little 
passion of anger, for I had not forgot that with 
this new uncle sorrow had first come into our 
dwelling : I screamed loudly till my father 
came out to know what it was all about. He 
sent my uncle into the parlour, and said, he 
would manage the little wrangler by himself. 
When my uncle was gone I ceased crying ; my 
father forgot to lecture me for my ill-humour, 
or to inquire into the cause, and we were soon 
seated by the side of the tombstone. No lesson 
went on that day; no talking of pretty mamma 
sleeping in the green grave ; no jumping from 
the tombstone to the ground; no merry jokes 
or pleasant stories. 1 sat upon my father's 
knee, looking up in his face, and thinking, 
"How sorry pap>a looks" till, having been fatigued 
with crying, and now oppressed with thought, 
I fell fast asleep. 

My uncle soon learned from Susan that this 
place was our constant haunt ; she told him she 
did verily believe her master would never get 
the better of the death of her mistress while 
he continued to teach thQ child to read at the 
tombstone ; for, though it might soothe his 
grief, it kept it for ever fresh in his memory. 
The sight of his sister's grave had been such a 
shock to my uncle, that he readily entered into 
Susan's apprehensions ; and concluding, that if 
I were set to study by some other means, there 
would no longer be a pretence for these visits 
to the grave, away my kind uncle hastened 
to the nearest market-town to buy me some 
books. 

I heard the conference between my uncle and 
Susan, and I did not approve of his interfering 
in our pleasure. I saw him take his hat and I 
walk out, and I secretly hoped he was gone j 
beyond seas again, from whence Susan had told ! 
me he had come. Where beyond seas was I j 
could not tell ; but I concluded it was some- | 
where a great way off. I took my seat on the 
churchyard stile, and kept looking down the i 
road, and saying, " I hope I shall not see my j 
uncle again. I hope my uncle will not come 
from beyond seas any more ;" but I said this very I 
softly, and had a kind of notion that I was in 
a perverse ill-humoured fit. Here I sat till 
my uncle returned from the market-town with 
his new purchases. I saw him come walking 
very fast with a parcel under his arm. I was 
very sorry to see him, and I frowned, and tried 
to look very cross. He untied his parcel, and j 



THE SAILOR UNCLE. 



said, " Betsy, I have brought you a pretty 
book." I turned my head away, and said, " I 
don't want a book ;" but I could not help 
peeping again to look at it. In the hurry of 
opening the parcel, he had scattered all the 
books upon the ground, and there I saw fine 
gilt covers and gay pictures all fluttering about. 
What afine sight ! — All my resentment vanished 
and I held up my face to kiss him, that being 
my way of thanking my father for any extra- 
ordinary favour. 

My uncle had brought himself into rather a 
troublesome office ; he had heard me spell so 
well, that he thought there was nothing to do 
but to put books into my hand, and I should 
read ; yet, notwithstanding I spelt tolerably 
well, the letters in my new library were so 
much smaller than I had been accustomed to, 
they were like Greek characters to me ; I could 
make nothing at all of them. The honest sailor 
was not to be discouraged by this difficulty ; 
though unused to play the schoolmaster, he 
taught me to read the small print, with un- 
wearied diligence and patience ; and whenever 
he saw my father and me look as if we wanted 
to resume our -visits to the grave, he would 
propose some pleasant ramble ; and if my father 
said it was too far for the child to walk, he 
would set me on his shoulder, and say, "Then 
Betsy shall ride ;" and in this manner has he 
carried me many, many miles. 

In these pleasant excursions myuncle seldom 
forgot to make Susan furnish him with a lun- 
cheon, which, though it generally happened 
every day, made a constant surprise to my papa 
and me, when, seated under some shady tree, 
he pulled it out of his pocket, and began to 
distribute his little store ; and then I used to 
peep into the other pocket, to see if there were 
not some currant wine there, and the little bottle 
of water for me ; if, perchance, the water was 
forgot, then it made another joke, — that poor 
Betsy must be forced to drink a little drop of 
wine. These are childish things to tell of; and, 
instead of my own silly history, I wish I could 
remember the entertaining stories my uncle 
used to relate of his voyages and travels, while 
we sat under the shady trees, eating our noon- 
tide meal. 

The long visit my uncle made us was such 
an important event in my life, that I fear I 
shall tire your patience with talking of him ; 
but when he is gone, the remainder of my story 
will be but short. 

The summer months passed away, but not 
swiftly ;— the pleasant walks and the charming 
stories of my uncle's adventures made them 
seem like years to me ; I remember the ap- 
proach of winter by the warm great-coat he 
bought for me, and how proud I was when I 
first put it on : and that he called me Little 
Bed Riding Hood, and bade me beware of j 
wolves : and that I laughed, and said there | 
were no such things now : then he told me how 



many wolves, and bears, and tigers, and lions, 
he had met with in uninhabited lands, that 
were like Robinson Crusoe's island. O these 
were happy days ! 

In the winter our walks were shorter and 
less frequent. My books were now my chief 
amusement, though my studies were often 
interrupted by a game of romps with my uncle, 
which too often ended in a quarrel, because he 
played so roughly ; yet long before this I 
dearly loved my uncle, and the improvement I 
made while he was with us was very great 
indeed. I could now read very well, and the 
continual habit of listening to the conversation 
of my father an d my uncle made me a little woman 
in understanding ; so that my father said to 
him, " James, you have made my child quite a 
companionable little being." 

My father often left me alone with my 
uncle ; sometimes to write his sermons ; some- 
times to visit the sick, or give counsel to his 
poor neighbours : then my uncle used to hold 
long conversations with me, telling me how I 
should strive to make my father happy, and 
endeavour to improve myself when he was 
gone — now I began justly to understand why 
he had taken such pains to keep my father 
from visiting my mother's grave, that grave 
which I often stole privately to look at ; but 
now never without awe and reverence, for my 
uncle used to tell me what an excellent lady 
my mother was ; and I now thought of her as 
having been a real mamma, which before 
seemed an ideal something, no way connected 
with life. And he told me that the ladies from 
the Manor-house, who sate in the best pew in 
the church, were not so graceful, and the best 
women in the village were not so good, as was 
my sweet mamma ; and that if she had lived, 
I should not have been forced to pick up a 
little knowledge from him, a rough sailor, or to 
learn to knit and sew of Susan, but that she 
would have taught me all lady-like fine works, 
and delicate behaviour, and perfect manners, 
and would have selected for me proper books, 
such as were most fit to instruct my mind, and 
of which he nothing knew. If ever in my life 
I shall have any proper sense of what is 
excellent or becoming in the womanly cha- 
racter, I owe it to these lessons of my rough 
unpolished uncle ; for, in telling me what my 
mother would have made me, he taught me 
what to wish to be : and when, soon after my 
uncle left us, I was introduced to the ladies at 
the Manor-house, instead of hanging down my 
head with shame, as I should have done before 
my uncle came, like a little village rustic, 
I tried to speak distinctly, with ease, and a 
modest gentleness, as my uncle had said my 
mother used to do ; instead of hanging down 
my head abashed, I looked upon them, and 
thought what a pretty sight a fine lady was, 
and how well my mother must have appeared, 
since she was so much more graceful than 



42 



ELIZABETH VILLIEPS. 



these high ladies were ; and when I heard 
them compliment my father on the admirable 
behaviour of his child, and say how well he 
had brought me up, I thought to myself, 
" Papa does not much mind my manners, if 
I am but a good girl ; but it was my uncle 
that taught me to behave like mamma." — 
I cannot now think my uncle was so rough 
and unpolished as he said he was ; for his 
lessons were so good and so impressive, that I 
shall never forget them, and I hope they will 
be of use to me as long as I live : he would 
explain to me the meaning of all the words he 
used, such as grace and elegance, modest diffi- 
dence and affectation, pointing out instances 
of what he meant by those words in the man- 
ners of the ladies and their young daughters 
who came to our church ; for besides the ladies 
of the Manor-house, many of the neighbouring 
families came to our church, because my father 
preached so well. 

It must have been early in the spring when 
my uncle went away, for the crocuses were 
just blown in the garden, and the primroses 
had begun to peep from under the young 
budding hedge-rows. — I cried as if my heart 
would break, when I had the last sight of him 
through a little opening among the trees, as he 
went down the road. My father accompanied 
him to the market town, from whence he was 
to proceed in the stage-coach to London. 
How tedious I thought all Susan's endeavours 
to comfort me were. The stile where I first 
saw my uncle came into my mind, and I 
thought I would go and sit there, and think 
about that day ; but I was no sooner seated 
there, than I remembered how I had frightened 
him by taking him so foolishly to my mother's 
grave, and then again how naughty I had 
been when I sate muttering to myself at this 
same stile, wishing that he, who had gone 
so far to buy me books, might never come 
back any more ; all my little quarrels with 
my uncle came into my mind, now that I could 
never play with him again, and it almost broke 
my heart. I was forced to run into the house 
to Susan for that consolation I had just before 
despised. 

Some days after this, as I was sitting by the 
fire with my father, after it was dark, and 
before the candles were lighted, I gave him 
an account of my troubled conscience at the 
church-stile, when I remembered how unkind 
I had been to my uncle when he first came, 
and how sorry I still was, whenever I thought 
of the many quarrels I had had with him. 

My father smiled, and took hold of my hand, 
saying, " I will tell you all about this, my 
little penitent. This is the sort of way in 



which we all feel, when those we love are 
taken from us. — When our dear friends are 
with us, we go on enjoying their society, with- 
out much thought or consideration of the 
blessing we are possessed of, nor do we too 
nicely weigh the measure of our daily actions 
— we let them freely share our kind or our dis- 
contented moods : and, if any little bickerings 
disturb our friendship, it does but the more 
endear us to each other when we are in a 
happier temper. But these things come over 
us like grievous faults when the object of our 
affection is gone for ever. Your dear mamma 
and I had no quarrels ; yet in the first days of 
my lonely sorrow, how many things came into 
my mind that I might have done to have made 
her happier. It is so with you, my child. You 
did all a child could do to please your uncle, 
and dearly did he love you ; and these little 
things which now disturb your tender mind, 
were remembered with delight by your uncle ; 
he was telling me in our last walk, just perhaps 
as you were thinking about it with sorrow, of 
the difficulty he had in getting into your good 
graces when he first came ; he will think of 
these things with pleasure when he is far away. 
Put away from you this unfounded grief ; only 
let it be a lesson to you, to be as kind as possible 
to those you love ; and remember, when they 
are gone from you, you will never think you had 
been kind enough. Such feelings as you have 
now described are the lot of humanity. So you 
will feel when I am no more, and so will your 
children feel when you are dead. But your 
uncle will come back again, Betsy ; and we will 
now think of where we are to get the cage to 
keep the talking parrot in, he is to bring home ; 
and go and tell Susan to bring the candles, and 
ask her if the nice cake is almost baked that 
she promised to give us for our tea." 

At this point, my dear Miss Villiers, you thought 
fit to break off your story ; and the wet eyes of your 
young auditors seemed to confess that you had suc- 
ceeded in moving their feelings with your pretty 
narrative. It now fell by lot to the turn of Miss 
Manners to relate her story, and we were all suf- 
ficiently curious to know what so very young an his- 
torian had to tell of herself. — / shall continue the 
narratives for the future in the order in which they 
iollowed, without mentioning any of the interruptions 
which occurred from the asking of questions, or from 
any other cause, unless materially connected with the 
stories. I shall also leave out the apologies with which 
you severally thought fit to preface your stories of 
yourselves, though they were very seasonable in their 
place, and proceeded, from a proper diffidence, 
I must not swell my work to too large a size. 



THE FARM-HOUSE. 



43 



II. 



LOUISA MANNERS. 



My name is Louisa Manners ; I was seven 
years of age last birth-day, which was on the 
first of May. I remember only four birth-days. 
The day I was four years old was the first that 
I recollect. On the morning of that day, as 
soon as I awoke, I crept into mamma's bed, 
and said, " Open your eyes, mamma, for it is 
my birth-day. Open your eyes and look at 
me !" Then mamma told me I should ride in a 
post-chaise, and see my grandmamma and my 
sister Sarah. Grandmamma lived at a farm- 
house in the country, and I had never in all 
my life been out of London ; no, nor had I 
ever seen a bit of green grass, except in the 
Drapers' Garden, which is near my papa's 
house in Broad-street ; nor had I ever rode in 
a carriage before that happy birth-day. 

I ran about the house talking of where I was 
going, and rejoicing so that it was my birth- 
day, that when I got into the chaise I was tired, 
and fell asleep. 

When I awoke, I saw the green fields on 
both sides of the chaise, and the fields were full, 
quite full, of bright shining yellow flowers, and 
sheep and young lambs were feeding in them. 
I jumped, and clapped my hands together for 
joy, and I cried out, This is 

" Abroad in the meadows to see the young lambs," 

for I knew many of Watts's hymns by heart. 

The trees and hedges seemed to fly swiftly 
by us, and one field, and the sheep, and the 
young lambs passed away ; and then another 
field came, and that was full of cows ; and then 
another field, and all the pretty sheep returned, 
and there was no end of these charming sights 
till we came quite to grandmamma's house, 
which stood all alone by itself, no house to be 
seen at all near it. 

Grandmamma was very glad to see me, and 
she was very sorry that I did not remember 
her, though I had been so fond of her when 
she was in town but a few months before. I 
was quite ashamed of my bad memory. My 
sister Sarah showed me all the beautiful places 
about grandmamma's house. She first took 
me into the farm-yard, and I peeped into the 
barn ; there I saw a man threshing, and as he 
beat the corn with his flail, he made such a 
dreadful noise, that I was frightened, and ran 
away : my sister persuaded me to return ; she 
said Will Tasker was very good-natured ; 
then I went back, and peeped at him again ; 



but as I could not reconcile myself to the 
sound of his flail, or the sight of his black 
beard, we proceeded to see the rest of the farm- 
yard. 

There was no end to the curiosities that 
Sarah had to show me. There was the pond 
where the ducks were swimming, and the little 
wooden houses where the hens slept at night. 
The hens were feeding all over the yard, and 
the prettiest little chickens, they were feeding 
too, and little yellow ducklings that had a hen 
for their mamma. — She was so frightened if 
they went near the water ! Grandmamma says 
a hen is not esteemed a very wise bird. 

We went out of the farm-yard into the or- 
chard. O what a sweet place grandmamma's 
orchard is ! There were pear-trees, and apple- 
trees, and cherry-trees, all in blossom. These 
blossoms were the prettiest flowers that ever 
were seen ; and among the grass under the 
trees there grew butter-cups, and cowslips, and 
daffodils, and blue-bells. Sarah told me all 
their names, and she said I might pick as many 
of them as ever I pleased. 

I filled my lap with flowers, I filled my 
bosom with flowers, and I carried as many 
flowers as I could in both my hands ; but as I 
was going into the parlour to show them to my 
mamma, I stumbled over a threshold which 
was placed across the parlour, and down I fell 
with all my treasure. 

Nothing could have so well pacified me for 
the misfortune of my fallen flowers, as the sight 
of a delicious syllabub which happened at that 
moment to be brought in. Grandmamma said 
it was a present from the red cow to me, be- 
cause it was my birth-day ; and then, because 
it was the first of May, she ordered the syllabub 
to be placed under the May-bush that grew 
before the parlour-door, and when we were 
seated on the grass round it, she helped me the 
very first to a large glass full of the syllabub, 
and wished me many happy returns of that 
day, and then she said I was myself the 
sweetest little May-blossom in the orchard. 

After the syllabub, there was the garden to 
see, and a most beautiful garden it was ;— long 
and narrow, a straight gravel walk down the 
middle of it ; at the end of the gravel-walk 
there was a green arbour with a bench under 
it. 

There were rows of cabbages and radishes, 
and peas and beans. I was delighted to see 



44 



LOUISA MANNERS. 



them, for I never saw so much as a 
growing out of the ground before. 

On one side of this charming garden there 
were a great many bee-hives, and the bees 
sung so prettily. 

Mamma said, " Have you nothing to say to 
these pretty bees, Louisa ?" Then I said to 
them, 

" How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour, 
And gather honey all the day from every opening flower." 

They had a most beautiful flower-bed to gather 
it from, quite close under the hives. 

I was going to catch one bee, till Sarah told 
me about their stings, which made me afraid 
for a long time to go too near their hives : but 
I went a little nearer, and a little nearer every 
day, and before I came away from grand- 
mamma's, I grew so bold, I let Will Tasker 
hold me over the glass windows at the top of 
the hives, to see them make honey in their 
own home. 

After seeing the garden, I saw the cows 
milked, and that was the last sight I saw that 
day ; for while I was telling mamma about the 
cows I fell fast asleep, and I suppose I was 
then put to bed. 

The next morning my papa and mamma 
were gone. I cried sadly, but was a little com- 
forted at hearing they would return in a month 
or two, and fetch me home. I was a foolish 
little thing then, and did not know how long a 
month was. Grandmamma gave me a little 
basket to gather my flowers in. I went into 
the orchard, and before I had half filled my 
basket, I forgot all my troubles. 

The time I passed at my grandmamma's is 
always in my mind. Sometimes I think of the 
good-natured pied cow, that would let me 
stroke her while the dairy-maid was milking 
her. Then I fancy myself running after the 
dairy-maid into the nice clean dairy, and see 
the pans full of milk and cream. Then I re- 
member the wood-house ; it had once been a 
large barn, but being grown old, the wood was 
kept there. My sister and I used to peep about 
among the fagots, to find the eggs the hens 
sometimes left there. Birds' nests Ave might 
not look for. Grandmamma was very angry 
once, when Will Tasker brought home a bird's 
nest, full of pretty speckled eggs, for me. She 
sent him back to the hedge with it again. She 
said the little birds would not sing any more, 
if their eggs were taken away from them. 

A hen, she said, was a hospitable bird, and 
always laid more eggs than she wanted, on 
purpose to give her mistress, to make puddings 
and custards with. 

I do not know which pleased grandmamma 
best, when we carried her home a lap-full of 
eggs, or a few violets ; for she was particularly 
fond of violets. 

Violets were very scarce ; we used to search 
very carefully for them every morning, round 



by the orchard hedge, and Sarah used to carry 
a stick in her hand to beat away the nettles ; 
for very frequently the hens left their eggs 
among the nettles. If we could find eggs and 
violets too, what happy children we were ! 

Every day I used to fill my basket with 
flowers, and for a long time I liked one pretty 
flower as well as another pretty flower : but 
Sarah was much wiser than I, and she taught 
me which to prefer. 

Grandmamma's violets were certainly best of 
all, but they never went in the basket, being 
carried home, almost flower by flower, as soon 
as they were found, therefore blue-bells might 
be said to be the best, for the cowslips were all 
withered and gone before I learned the true 
value of flowers. The best blue-bells were 
those tinged with red ; some were so very red 
that we called them red blue-bells, and these 
Sarah prized very highly indeed. Daffodils were 
so very plentiful, they were not thought worth 
gathering, unless they were double ones ; and 
butter-cups I found were very poor flowers 
indeed, yet I would pick one now and then, be- 
cause I knew they were the very same flowers 
that had delighted me so in the journey ; for 
my papa had told me they were. 

I was very careful to love best the flowers 
which Sarah praised most, yet sometimes I 
confess, I have even picked a daisy, though I 
knew it was the very worst flower of all, be- 
cause it reminded me of London, and the Dra- 
pers' Garden ; for, happy as I was at grand- 
mamma's, I could not help sometimes thinking 
of my papa and mamma, and then I used to tell 
my sister all about London ; how the houses 
stood all close to each other ; what a pretty 
noise the coaches made ; and what a great many 
people there were in the streets. After we had 
been talking on these subjects, we generally 
used to go into the old wood-house, and play at 
being in London. We used to set up bits of 
wood for houses ; our two dolls we called papa 
and mamma ; in one corner we made a little 
garden with grass and daisies, and that was to 
be the Drapers' Garden. I would not have 
any other flowers here than daisies, because no 
other grew among the grass in the real Drapers' 
Garden. Before the time of hay-making came, 
it was very much talked of. Sarah told me 
what a merry time it would be, for she remem- 
bered every thing which had happened for a 
year or more. She told me how nicely we 
should throw the hay about. I was very de- 
sirous, indeed, to see the hay made. 

To be sure, nothing could be more pleasant 
than the day the orchard was mowed : the hay 
smelled so sweet, and we might toss it about 
as much as ever we pleased ; but, dear me, we 
often wish for things that do not prove so 
happy as we expected ; the hay, which was at 
first so green, and smelled so sweet, became 
yellow and dry, and was carried away in a cart 
to feed the horses : and then, when it was all 



THE FARM-HOUSE. 



45 



gone, and there was no more to play with, I 
looked upon the naked ground, and perceived 
what we had lost in these few merry days. 
Ladies, would you believe it ? every flower, 
blue-bells, daffodils, butter-cups, daisies, all 
were cut off by the cruel scythe of the mower. 
No flower was to be seen at all, except here 
and there a short solitary daisy, that a week 
before one would not have looked at. 

It was a grief, indeed, to me, to lose all my 
pretty flowers ; yet when we are in great dis- 
tress, there is always, I think, something which 
happens to comfort us ; and so it happened now 
that gooseberries and currants were almost 
ripe, which was certainly a very pleasant pro- 
spect. Some of them began to turn red, and, 
as we never disobeyed grandmamma, we used 
often to consult together, if it was likely she 
would permit us to eat them yet ; then we 
would pick a few that looked the ripest, and 
run to ask her if she thought they were ripe 
enough to eat, and the uncertainty what her 
opinion would be, made them doubly sweet if 
she gave us leave to eat them. 

When the currants and gooseberries were 
quite ripe, grandmamma had a sheep-shearing. 
All the sheep stood under the trees to be 
sheared. They were brought out of the field 
by old Spot, the shepherd. I stood at the 
orchard-gate, and saw him drive them all in. 
When they had cropped off all their wool, they 
looked very clean, and white, and pretty ; but, 
poor things, they ran shivering about with 
cold, so that it was a pity to see them. Great 
preparations were making all day for the sheep- 
shearing supper. Sarah said, a sheep-shearing 
was not to be compared to a harvest-home, that 
was so much better, for that then the oven was 
quite full of plum-pudding, and the kitchen 
was very hot indeed with roasting beef ; yet I 
can assure you there was no want at all of 
either roast-beef or plum-pudding at the sheep- 
shearing. 

My sister and I were permitted to sit up till 
it was almost dark, to see the company at sup- 
per. They sat at a long oak table, which was 



finely carved, and as bright as a looking- 
glass. /- 

I obtained a great deal of praise that day, 
because I replied so prettily when I was spoken 
to. My sister was more shy than I ; never 
having lived in London was the reason of that. 
After the happiest day, bed-time will come ! 
We sate up late ; but at last grandmamma 
sent us to bed : yet though we went to bed, 
we heard many charming songs sung : to be 
sure, we could not distinguish the words, which 
was a pity, but the sound of their voices was 
very loud, and very fine indeed. 

The common supper that we had every night 
was very cheerful. Just before the men came 
out of the field, a large fagot was flung on the 
fire ; the wood used to crackle and blaze, and 
smell delightfully : and then the crickets, for 
they loved the fire, they used to sing ; and old 
Spot, the shepherd, who loved the fire as well 
as the crickets did, he used to take his place 
in the chimney corner ; after the hottest day 
in summer, there old Spot used to sit. It 
was a seat within the fire-place, quite under 
the chimney, and over his head the bacon 
hung. 

When old Spot was seated, the milk was 
hung in a skillet over the fire, and then the 
men used to come and sit down at the long 
white table. 

Pardon me, my dear Louisa, that I interrupted 
you here. You are a little woman now to what you 
were then ; and I may say to you, that though I loved 
to hear you prattle of your early recollections, I 
thought I perceived some ladies present were rather 
weary of hearing so much of the visit to grandmamma. 
You may remember I asked you some questions con- 
cerning your papa and mamma, which led you to speak 
of your journey home : but your little town-bred head 
was sofidl of the pleasures of a country life, that you 
first made many apologies that you were unable to 
tell what happened during the harvest, as unfor- 
tunately you were fetched home the very day before it 
began. 



40 



ANN WITHERS. 



III. 



ANN WITHERS. 



My name you know is Withers ; but as I 
once thought I was the daughter of Sir Edward 
and Lady Harriet Lesley, I shall speak of my- 
self as Miss Lesley, and call Sir Edward and 
Lady Harriet my father and mother during 
the period I supposed them entitled to those 
beloved names. When I was a little girl, it 
was the perpetual subject of my contemplation, 
that I was an heiress, and the daughter of a 
baronet ; that my mother was the Honourable 
Lady Harriet ; that we had a nobler mansion, 
infinitely finer pleasure-grounds, and equipages 
more splendid than any of the neighbouring 
families. Indeed, my good friends, having ob- 
served nothing of this error of mine in either 
of the lives which have hitherto been related, 
I am ashamed to confess what a proud child I 
once was. How it happened I cannot tell, 
for my father was esteemed the best bred 
man in the country, and the condescension 
and affability of my mother were universally 
spoken of. 

a Oh, my dear friend," said Miss , u it 

was very natural indeed, if you supposed you 
possessed these advantages. We make no 
comparative figure in the county, and my 
father was originally a man of no considera- 
tion at ail ; and yet I can assure you, both he 
and mamma had a prodigious deal of trouble 
to break me of this infirmity when I was very 
young." — " And do reflect for a moment," said 
Miss Villiers, " from whence could proceed any 
pride in me — a poor curate's daughter ; — at 
least any pride worth speaking of; for the 
difficulty my father had to make me feel 
myself on an equality with a miller's little 
daughter who visited me, did not seem an 
anecdote worth relating. My father, from his 
profession, is accustomed to look into these 
things, and whenever he has observed any ten- 
dency to this fault in me, and has made me 
sensible of my error, I, who am rather a weak- 
spirited girl, have been so much distressed at 
his reproofs, that to restore me to my own good 
opinion, he would make me sensible that pride 
is a defect inseparable from human nature ; 
showingme,in our visits to the poorest labourers, 
how pride would, as he expressed it, c prettily 
peep out from under their ragged garbs.'' — 
My father dearly loved the poor. In persons 
of a superior rank to our own humble one, 
I wanted not much assistance from my father's 
nice discernment to know that it existed there ; 



and for these latter he would always claim that 
toleration from me, which he said he observed 
I was less willing to allow than to the former 
instances. 'We are told in holy writ/ he 
would say, { that it is easier for a camel to go 
through the eye of a needle, than for a rich 
man to enter into the kingdom of heaven. — 
Surely this is not meant alone to warn the 
affluent ; it must also be understood as an ex- 
pressive illustration, to instruct the lowly- for- 
tuned man, that he should bear with those im- 
perfections, inseparable from that dangerous 
prosperity from which he is happily exempt.' 
But we sadly interrupt your story." 

" You are very kind, ladies, to speak with 
so much indulgence of my foible," said Miss 
Withers, and was going to proceed, when little 
Louisa Manners asked, " Pray are not equi- 
pages carriages?" "Yes, Miss Manners, an 
equipage is a carriage." " Then I am sure if 
my papa had but one equipage I should be very 
proud ; for once when my papa talked of keep- 
ing a one horse-chaise, I never was so proud of 
anything in my life : I used to dream of riding 
in it, and imagine I saw my play-fellows walk- 
ing past me in the streets." 

" Oh, my dear Miss Manners," replied Miss 
Withers, " your young head might well run on 
a thing so new to you ; but you have preached 
a useful lesson to me in your own pretty 
rambling story, which I shall not easily forget. 
When you were speaking with such delight of 
the pleasure the sight of a farm-yard, an 
orchard, and a narrow slip of kitchen-garden, 
gave you, and could for years preserve so lively 
the memory of one short ride, and that proba- 
bly through a flat, uninteresting country, I 
remembered how early I learned to disregard 
the face of Nature, unless she were decked in 
picturesque scenery ; how wearisome our parks 
and grounds became to me, unless some im- 
provements were going forward which I thought 
would attract notice ; but those days are gone ! " 
— I will now proceed in my story, and bring 
you acquainted with my real parents. 

Alas ! I am a Changeling, substituted by my 
mother for the heiress of the Lesley family : it 
was for my sake she did this naughty deed ; 
yet, since the truth has been known, it seems 
to me as if I had been the only sufferer by it ; 
remembering no time when I was not Harriet 
Lesley, it seems as if the change had taken from 
me my birthright. 



THE CHANGELING. 



47 



Lady Harriet had intended to nurse her 
child herself ; but being seized with a violent 
fever soon after its birth, she was not only 
unable to nurse it, but even to see it, for several 
weeks. I was not quite a month old at this 
time, when my mother was hired to be Miss 
Lesley's nurse — she had once been a servant 
in the family — her husband was then at sea. 

She had been nursing Miss Lesley a few days, 
when a girl who had the care of me brought 
me into the nursery to see my mother. It 
happened that she wanted something from her 
own home, which she despatched the girl to 
fetch, and desired her to leave me till her 
return. In her absence she changed our 
clothes : then keeping me to personate the 
child she was nursing, she sent away the 
daughter of Sir Edward to be brought up in 
her own poor cottage. 

When my mother sent away the girl, she 
affirmed she had not the least intention of 
committing this bad action ; but after she was 
left alone with us, she looked on me, and then 
on the little lady-babe, and she wept over me, 
to think she was obliged to leave me to the 
charge of a careless girl, debarred from my own 
natural food while she was nursing another 
person's child. 

The laced cap and the fine cambric robe of 
the little Harriet were lying on the table ready 
to be put on : in these she dressed me, only 
just to see how pretty her own dear baby would 
look in missy's fine clothes. "When she saw 
me thus adorned, she said to me, " 0, my dear 
Ann, you look as like missy as anything can 
be. . I am sure my lady herself, if she were 
well enough to see you, would not know the 
difference." She said these words aloud, and 
while she was speaking, a wicked thought came 
into her head — how easy it would be to change 
these children ! On which she hastily dressed 
Harriet in my coarse raiment. She had no 
sooner finished the transformation of Miss 
Lesley into the poor Ann Withers, than the 
girl returned, and carried her away, without 
the least suspicion that it wasnot the same 
fant that she had brought thither. 

It was wonderful that no one discovered 
that I was not the same child. Every fresh 
face that came into the room filled the nurse 
with terror. The servants still continued to 
pay their compliments to the baby in the same 
form as usual, crying, " How like it is to its 
papa ! " Nor did Sir Edward himself perceive 
the difference, his lady's illness probably en- 
grossing all his attention at the time ; though, 
indeed, gentlemen seldom take much notice of 
very young children. 

When Lady Harriet began to recover, and 
the nurse saw me in her arms caressed as her 
own child, all fears of detection were over ; 
but the pangs of remorse then seized her : as 
the dear sick lady hung with tears of fondness 
over me, she thought she should have died 



with sorrow, for having so cruelly deceived 
her. 

When I was a year old, Mrs. Withers was 
discharged ; and because she had been observed 
to nurse me with uncommon care and affection, 
and was seen to shed many tears at parting 
from me, to reward her fidelity Sir Edward 
settled a small pension on her, and she was 
allowed to come every Sunday to dine in the 
housekeeper's room, and see her little lady. 

When she went home, it might have been 
expected she would have neglected the child 
she had so wickedly stolen ; instead of which 
she nursed it with the greatest tenderness, 
being very sorry for what she had done ; all 
the ease she could ever find for her troubled 
conscience was in her extreme care of this in- 
jured child ; and in the weekly visits to its 
father's house she constantly brought it with 
her. At the time I have the earliest recollec- 
tion of her, she was become a widow, and with 
the pension Sir Edward allowed her, and some 
plain-work she did for our family, she main- 
tained herself and her supposed daughter. The 
doting fondness she showed for her child was 
much talked of ; it was said, she waited upon 
it more like a servant than a mother ; and it 
was observed, its clothes were always made, as 
far as her slender means would permit, in the 
same fashion, and her hair cut and curled in the 
same form, as mine. To this person, as having 
been my faithful nurse, and to her child, I was 
always taught to show particular civility, and 
the little girl was always brought into the nur- 
sery to play with me. Ann was a little delicate 
thing, and remarkably well-behaved ; for though 
so much indulged in every other respect, my 
mother was very attentive to her manners. 

As the child grew older, my mother became 
very uneasy about her education. She was so 
very desirous of having her well-behaved, that 
she feared to send her to school, lest she should 
learn ill manners among the village children, 
with whom she never suffered her to play ; and 
she was such a poor scholar herself, that she 
could teach her little or nothing. I heard her 
relate this her distress to my own maid, with 
tears in her eyes, and I formed a resolution to 
beg of my parents that I might have Ann for a 
companion, and that she might be allowed to 
take lessons with me of my governess. 

My birth-day was then approaching, and on 
that day I was always indulged in the privilege 
of asking some peculiar favour. 

" And what boon has my annual petitioner 
to beg to-day ?" said my father, as he entered 
the breakfast-room on the morning of my 
birth-day. Then I told him of the great 
anxiety expressed by nurse Withers concern- 
ing her daughter ; how much she wished it 
was in her power to give her an education that 
would enable her to get her living without 
hard labour. I set the good qualities of Ann 
Withers in the best light I could, and in con- 



48 



ANN WITHERS. 



elusion, I begged she might be permitted to 
partake with me in education, and become my 
companion. " This is a very serious request, 
indeed, Harriet," said Sir Edward ; " your 
mother and I must consult together on the 
subject." The result of this conversation was 
favourable to my wishes : in a few weeks 
my foster-sister was taken into the house, 
and placed under the tuition of my gover- 
ness. 

To me, who had hitherto lived without any 
companions of my own age, except occasional 
visitors, the idea of a play-fellow constantly to 
associate with was very pleasant ; and, after 
the first shyness of feeling her altered situation 
was over, Ann seemed as much at her ease as 
if she had always been brought up in our 
house. I became very fond of her, and took 
pleasure in showing her all manner of atten- 
tions ; which so far won on her affections, that 
she told me she had a secret intrusted to her 
by her mother, which she had promised never 
to reveal as long as her mother lived, but that 
she almost wished to confide it to me, because 
I was such a kind friend to her ; yet, having 
promised never to tell it till the death of her 
mother, she was afraid to tell it to me. At 
first I assured her that I would never press 
her to the disclosure, for that promises of 
secrecy were to be held sacred ; but whenever 
we fell into any confidential kind of conversa- 
tion, this secret seemed always ready to come 
out. Whether she or I were most to blame, 
I know not, though I own I could not help 
giving frequent hints how well I could keep a 
secret. At length she told me what I have 
before related, namely, that she was in truth 
the daughter of Sir Edward and Lady Lesley, 
and I the child of her supposed mother. 

When I was first in possession of this won- 
derful secret, my heart burned to reveal it. 
I thought how praiseworthy it would be in 
me to restore to my friend the rights of her 
birth ; yet I thought only of becoming her 
patroness, and raising her to her proper rank ; 
it never occurred to me that my own degra- 
dation must necessarily follow. I endeavoured 
to persuade her to let me tell this important 
affair to my parents : this she positively refused. 
I expressed wonder that she should so faith- 
fully keep this secret for an unworthy woman, 
who in her infancy had done her such an 
injury. 

" Oh," said she, " you do not know how 
much she loves me, or you would not wonder 
that I never resent that. I have seen her 
grieve and be so very sorry on my account, 
that I would not bring her into more trouble 
for any good that could happen to myself. 
She has often told me, that since the day she 
changed us, she has never known what it is to 
have a happy moment ; and when she returned 
home from nursing you, finding me very thin 
and sickly, how her heart smote her for what 



she had done; and then she nursed and fed 
me with such anxious care, that she grew much 
fonder of me than if I had been her own ; and 
that on the Sundays, when she used to bring 
me here, it was more pleasure to her to see 
me in my own father's house, than it was to 
her to see you, her real child. The shyness 
you showed towards her while you were very, 
young, and the forced civility you seemed to 
affect as you grew older, always appeared like 
ingratitude towards her who had done so much 
for you. My mother has desired me to disclose 
this after her death, but I do not believe I 
shall ever mention it then, for I should be 
sorry to bring any reproach even on her 
memory." 

In a short time after this important dis- 
covery, Ann was sent home to pass a few 
weeks with her mother, on the occasion of 
the unexpected arrival of some visitors to 
our house ; they were to bring children with 
them, and these I was to consider as my own 
guests. 

In the expected arrival of my young visit- 
ants, and in making preparations to entertain 
them, I had little leisure to deliberate on what 
conduct I should pursue with regard to my 
friend's secret. Something must be done, I 
thought, to make her amends for the injury 
she had sustained, and I resolved to consider 
the matter attentively on her return. Still 
my mind ran on conferring favours. I never 
considered myself as transformed into the 
dependent person. Indeed, Sir Edward at 
this time set me about a task which occupied 
the whole of my attention ; he proposed that I 
should write a little interlude, after the manner 
of the French Petites Pieces; and to try my 
ingenuity, no one was to see it before the 
representation, except the performers, myself, 
and my little friends, who, as they were all 
younger than I, could not be expected to 
lend me much assistance. I have already told 
you what a proud girl I was. During the 
writing of this piece, the receiving of my 
young friends, and the instructing them in 
their several parts, I never felt myself of so 
much importance With Ann, my pride had 
somewhat slumbered ; the difference of our 
rank left no room for competition ; all was 
complacency and good-humour on my part, 
and affectionate gratitude, tempered with 
respect, on hers. But here I had full room to 
show courtesy, to affect those graces, to imitate 
that elegance of manners, practised by Lady 
Harriet to their mothers. I was to be their 
instructress in action and in attitudes, and to 
receive their praises and their admiration of 
my theatrical genius. It was a new scene of 
triumph for me, and I might then be said to 
be in the very height of my glory. 

If the plot of my piece, for the invention of 
which they so highly praised me, had been 
indeed my own, all would have been well ; 



THE CHANGELING. 



49 



but unhappily I borrowed from a source which 
made my drama end far differently from what 
I intended it should. In the catastrophe I 
lost not only the name I personated in the 
piece, but with it my own name also ; and all 
my rank and consequence in the world fled 
from me for ever. My father presented me 
with a beautiful writing-desk for the use of 
my new authorship : my silver standish was 
placed upon it ; a quire of gilt paper was 
before me. I took out a parcel of my best 
crow quills, and down I sate in the greatest 
form imaginable. 

I conjecture I have no talent for invention ; 
certain it is, that when I sate down to compose 
my piece, no story would come into my head 
but the story which Ann had so lately related 
to me. Many sheets were scrawled over in 
vain ; I could think of nothing else ; still the 
babies and the nurse were before me in all the 
minutiae of description Ann had given them. 
The costly attire of the lady-babe — the homely 
garb of the cottage-infant — the affecting ad- 
dress of the fond mother to her own offspring 
— then the charming equivoque in the change 
of the children: it all looked so dramatic: — 
it was a play ready made to my hands. The 
invalid mother would form the pathetic, the 
silly exclamations of the servants the ludicrous, 
and the nurse was nature itself. It is true, I 
had a few scruples that it might, should it 
come to the knowledge of Ann, be construed 
into something very like a breach of confi- 
dence. But she was at home, and might never 
happen to hear of the subject of my piece, and 
if she did, why it was only making some hand- 
some apology. — To a dependent companion, 
to whom I had been so very great a friend, it 
was not necessary to be so very particular 
about such a trifle. 

Thus I reasoned as I wrote my drama, be- 
ginning with the title, which I called " The 
Changeling," and ending with these words : 
The curtain drops, while the lady clasps the baby in 
her arms, and the nurse sighs audibly. I invented 
no new incident, I simply wrote the story as 
Ann had told it to me, in the best blank verse 
I was able to compose. 

By the time it was finished, the company had 
arrived. The casting the different parts was 
my next care. The Honourable Augustus 

M , a young gentleman of five years 

of age, undertook to play the Father. He was 
only to come in and say, How does my little darling 

do to-day ? The three Miss 's were 

to be the servants ; they too had only single 
lines to speak. 

As these four were all very young perform- 
ers, we made them rehearse many times over, 
that they might walk in and out with proper 
decorum ; but the performance was stopped 
before their entrances and their exits arrived. 
I complimented Lady Elizabeth, the sister of 
Augustus, who was the eldest of the young 



ladies, with the choice of the lady-mother, or 
the nurse. She fixed on the former : she was 
to recline on a sofa, and affecting ill-health, 
speak some eight or ten lines, which began 
with — that I could my precious baby see! To her 

cousin Miss Emily — was given the 

girl who had the care of the nurse's child ; two 
dolls were to personate the two children ; and 
the principal character of the nurse I had the 
pleasure to perform myself. It consisted of 
several speeches, and a very long soliloquy 
during the changing of the children's clothes. 

The elder brother of Augustus, a gentleman 
of fifteen years of age, who refused to mix in 
our childish drama, yet condescended to paint 
the scenes ; and our dresses were got up by my 
own maid. 

When we thought ourselves quite perfect in 
our several parts, we announced it for repre- 
sentation. Sir Edward and Lady Harriet, with 
their visitors, the parents of my young troop of 
comedians, honoured us with their presence. 
The servants were also permitted to go into a 
music-gallery, which was at the end of a ball- 
room we had chosen for our theatre. 

As author and principal performer, standing 
before a noble audience, my mind was too much 
engaged with the arduous task I had under- 
taken, to glance my eyes towards the music- 
gallery, or I might have seen two more spectators 
there than I expected. Nurse Withers and 
her daughter Ann were there ; they had been 
invited by the housekeeper to be present at 
the representation of Miss Lesley's play. 

In the midst of the performance, as I, in 
character of the nurse, was delivering the 
wrong child to the girl, there was an exclama- 
tion from the music-gallery of " Oh ! it's all 
true ! it's all true !" This was followed by a 
bustle among the servants, and screams as 
of a person in an hysteric fit. Sir Edward came 
forward to inquire what was the matter. He 
saw it was Mrs. Withers who had fallen into a 
fit. Ann was weeping over her, and crying out, 
" Miss Lesley, you have told all in the play !" 

Mrs. Withers was brought out into the ball- 
room ; there, with tears and in broken accents, 
with every sign of terror and remorse, she soon 
made a full confession of her so long-concealed 
guilt. 

The strangers assembled to see our childish 
mimicry of passion were witnesses to a highly- 
wrought dramatic scene in real life. I had 
intended they should see the curtain drop 
without any discovery of the deceit ; unable to 
invent any new incident, I left the conclusion 
imperfect as I found it : but they saw a more 
strict poetical justice done ; they saw the 
rightful child restored to its parents, and the 
nurse overwhelmed with shame, and threatened 
with the severest punishment. 

" Take this woman," said Sir Edward, " and 
lock her up, till she be delivered into the hands 
of justice." 

E 



50 



ANN WITHERS. 



Ann, on her kness, implored mercy for her 
mother. — Addressing the children, who were 
gathered round her, "Dear ladies," said she, 
" help me, on your knees help me, to beg for- 
giveness for my mother." Down the young 
ones all dropped — even Lady Elizabeth bent 
on her knee. " Sir Edward, pity her distress ; 
Sir Edward, pardon her !" All joined in the 
petition, except one whose voice ought to have 
been loudest in the appeal. No word, no 
accent came from me. I hung over Lady 
Harriet's chair, weeping as if my heart would 
break : but I wept for my own fallen fortunes, 
not for my mother's sorrow. 

I thought within myself, " If in the integrity 
of my heart, refusing to participate in this 
unjust secret, I had boldly ventured to publish 
the truth, I might have had some consolation 
in the praises which so generous an action 
would have merited : but it is through the 
vanity of being supposed to have written' a 
pretty story, that I have meanly broken my 
faith' with my friend, and unintentionally pro- 
claimed the disgrace of my mother and myself." 
While thoughts like these were passing through 
my mind, Ann had obtained my mother's pardon. 
Instead of being sent away to confinement and 
the horrors of a prison, she was given by Sir 
Edward into the care of the housekeeper, who 
had orders from Lady Harriet to see her put 
to bed and properly attended to, for again this 
wretched woman had fallen into a fit. 

Ann would have followed my mother, but 
Sir Edward brought her back, telling her that 
she should see her when she was better. He 
then led her towards Lady Harriet, desiring 
her to embrace her child ; she did so, and I 
saw her, as I had phrased it in the play, clasped 
in her mother's arms. 

This scene had greatly affected the spirits 
of Lady Harriet ; through the whole of it, it 
was with difficulty she had been kept from 
fainting ; and she was now led into the drawing- 
room by the ladies. The gentlemen followed, 
talking with Sir Edward of the astonishing 
instance of filial affection they had just seen, 
in the earnest pleadings of the child for her 
supposed mother. 

Ann too went with them, and was conducted 
by her whom I had always considered as my own 
particular friend. Lady Elizabeth took hold 
of her hand,and said," Miss Lesley, will youper- 
mit me to conduct you to the drawing-room ?" 
I was left weeping behind the chair where 
Lady Harriet had sate, and, as I thought, quite 
alone. A something had before twitched my 
frock two or three times, so slightly I had 
scarcely noticed it : a little head now peeped 
round, and looking up in my face, said, " She 
is not Miss Lesley." It was the young Augus- 
tus ; he had been sitting at my feet, but I had 
not observed him. He then started up, and 
taking hold of my hand with one of his, with 
the other holding fast by my clothes, he led, 



or rather dragged me, into the midst of the 
company assembled in the drawing-room. The 
vehemence of his manner, his little face as red 
as fire, caught every eye. The ladies smiled, 
and one gentleman laughed in a most unfeel- 
ing manner. His elder brother patted him 
on the head, and said, " You are a humane 
little fellow : Elizabeth, we might have thought 
of this." 

Very kind words were now spoken to me by 
Sir Edward, and he called me Harriet, precious 
name now grown to me. Lady Harriet kissed 
me, and said she would never forget how long 
she had loved me as her child. These were 
comfortable words ; but I heard echoed round 
the room, " Poor thing, she cannot help it— I 
am sure she is to be pitied. — Dear Lady Har- 
riet, how kind, how considerate you are !" — 
Ah ! what a deep sense of my altered condition 
did I then feel ! 

" Let the young ladies divert themselves in 
another room," said Sir Edward ; " and Har- 
riet, take your new sister with you, and help 
her to entertain your friends." Yes, he called 
me Harriet again, and afterwards invented new 
names for his daughter and me, and always 
called us by them, apparently in jest ; yet I 
knew it was only because he would not hurt 
me with hearing our names reversed. When 
Sir Edward desired us to show the children 
into another room, Ann and I walked towards 
the door. A new sense of humiliation arose — 
how could I go out at the door before Miss 
Lesley ? — I stood irresolute ; she drew back. 
The elder brother of my friend Augustus 
assisted me in this perplexity : pushing us all 
forward, as if in a playful mood, he drove us 
indiscriminately before him, saying, " I will 
make one among you to-day." He had never 
joined in our sports before. 

My luckless play, that sad instance of my 
duplicity, was never once mentioned to me 
afterwards, not even by any one of the children 
who had acted in it ; and I must also tell you 
how considerate an old lady was at the time 
about our dresses. As soon as she perceived 
things growing very serious, she hastily stripped 
off the upper garments we wore to represent 
our different characters. I think I should 
have died with shame, if the child had led me 
into the drawing-room in the mummery I had 
worn to represent a nurse. This good lady 
was of another essential service to me ; for 
perceiving an irresolution in every one how 
they should behave to us, which distressed me 
very much, she contrived to place Miss Lesley 
above me at table, and called her Miss Lesley, 
and me Miss Withers ; saying at the same time 
in a low voice, but as if she meant I should hear 
her, " It is better these things should be done 
at once, then they are over." My heart thanked 
her, for I felt the truth of what she said. 

My poor mother continued very ill for many 
weeks : no medicine could remove the extreme 



THE CHANGELING. 



51 



dejection of spirits she laboured under. Sir 
Edward sent for the clergyman of the parish 
to give her religious consolation. Every day 
he came to visit her, and he would always take 
Miss Lesley and me into the room with him. 
I think, Miss Villiers, your father must be 
just such another man as Dr. Wheelding, our 
worthy rector ; just so I think he would have 
soothed the troubled conscience of my repentant 
mother. How feelingly, how kindly he used to 
talk of mercy and forgiveness ! 

My heart was softened by my own misfor- 
tunes, and the sight of my penitent, suffering 
mcther. I felt that she was now my only 
parent ; I strove, earnestly strove, to love her ; 
yet ever when I looked in her face, she would 
seem to me to be the very identical person 
whom I should have once thought sufficiently 
honoured by a slight inclination of the head, 
and a civil " Plow do you do, Mrs. Withers ?" 
One day, as Miss Lesley was hanging over her 
with her accustomed fondness, Dr. Wheelding 
reading in a prayer-book, and, as I thought, not 
at that moment regarding us, I threw myself on 
my knees, and silently prayed that I too might 
be able to love my mother. 

Dr. Wheelding had been observing me : he 
took me iuto the garden, and drew from me 
the subject of my petition. "Your prayers, 
my good young lady," said he, " I hope, are 
heard ; sure I am they have caused me to 
adopt a resolution, which, as it will enable you 
to see your mother frequently, will, I hope, 
greatly assist your pious wishes. 

" I will take your mother home with me to 
superintend my family. Under my roof, 
doubtless, Sir Edward will often permit you to 
see her. Perform your duty towards her as 
well as you possibly can. — Affection is the 
growth of time. With such good wishes in 
your young heart, do not despair that in due 
time it will assuredly spring up." 

With the approbation of Sir Edward and 
Lady Harriet, my mother was removed in a 
few days to Dr. Wheelding' s house : there she 
soon recovered — there she at present resides. 
She tells me she loves me almost as well as she 
did when I was a baby, and we both wept at 
parting when I came to school. 

Here, perhaps, I ought to conclude my story, 
which I fear has been a tedious one ; permit 
me, however, to say a few words concerning the 
time which elapsed since the discovery of my 
birth until my arrival here. 

It was on the fifth day of , that I was 

known to be Ann Withers, and the daughter 
of my supposed nurse. The company who 
were witness to my, disgrace departed in a few 
days, and I felt relieved from some part of the 
mortificationJ hourly experienced. For every 
fresh instance even of kindness or attention I 
experienced went to my heart, that I should 
be forced to feel thankful for it. 

Circumstanced as I was, surely I had nothing 



justly to complain of. The conduct of Sir 
Edward and Lady Harriet was kind in the 
extreme ; still preserving every appearance of 
a parental tenderness for me, but ah ! I might 
no longer call them by the dear names of father 
and mother. — Formerly, when speaking of 
them, I used, proud of their titles, to delight 
to say, " Sir Edward or Lady Harriet did this, 
or this ;" now I would give worlds to say, " My 
father or my mother." 

I should be perfectly unkind if I were to 
complain of Miss Lesley — indeed, I have not 
the least cause of complaint against her. As 
my companion, her affection and her gratitude 
had been unbounded ; and now that it was my 
turn to be the humble friend, she tried by every 
means in her power to make me think she 
felt the same respectful gratitude, which in 
her dependent station she had so naturally 
displayed. 

Only in a few rarely-constituted minds does 
that true attentive kindness spring up, that 
delicacy of feeling, which enters into every 
trivial thing, is ever awake and keeping watch 
lest it should offend. Myself, though educated 
with the extremest care, possessed but little of 
this virtue. Virtue I call it, though among 
men it is termed politeness ; for since the days 
of my humiliating reverse of fortune, I have 
learned its value. 

I feel quite ashamed to give instances of any 
deficiency I observed, or thought I have ob- 
served, in Miss Lesley. Now I am away from 
her, and dispassionately speaking of it, it seems 
as if my own soreness of temper had made me 
fancy things. I really believe now that I was 
mistaken ; but Miss Lesley had been so highly 
praised for her filial tenderness, I thought at 
last she seemed to make a parade about it, and 
used to run up to my mother, and affect to be 
more glad to see her than she really was after 
a time ; and I think Dr. Wheelding thought 
so, by a little hint he once dropped. But he 
too might be mistaken, for he was very partial 
to me. 

I am under the greatest obligation in the 
world to this good Dr. Wheelding. He has 
made my mother quite a respectable woman ; 
and I am sure it is owing a great deal to him 
that she loves me so well as she does. 

And here, though it may seem a little out of 
place, let me stop to assure you, that if I ever 
could have had any doubt of the sincerity of 
Miss Lesley's affection towards me, her be- 
haviour on the occasion of my coming here 
ought completely to efface it. She entreated 
with many tears, and almost the same energy 
with which she pleaded for forgiveness for 
my mother, that I might not be sent away. — 
But she was not alike successful in her sup- 
plications. 

Miss Lesley had made some progress in 
reading and writing during the time she was 
my companion only ; it was highly necessary 



52 



ANN WITHERS. 



that every exertion should be now made — the 
whole house was, as I may say, in requisition 
for her instruction ; Sir Edward and Lady 
Harriet devoted great part of the day to this 
purpose. A well-educated young person was 
taken under our governess, to assist her in her 
labours, and to teach Miss Lesley music. A 
drawing-master was engaged to reside in the 
house. 

At this time I was not remarkably forward 
in my education. My governess being a native 
of France, I spoke French very correctly, and 
I had made some progress in Italian ; I had 
only had the instruction of masters during 
the few months in the year we usually passed 
in London. 

Music I never had the least ear for ; I could 
scarcely be taught my notes. This defect in 
me was always particularly regretted by my 
mother, she being an excellent performer 
herself, both on the piano and on the harp. 

I think I have some taste for drawing ; but 
as Lady Harriet did not particularly excel in 
this, I lost so much time in the summer months, 
practising only under my governess, that I 
made no great proficiency even in this my 
favourite art. But Miss Lesley, with all these 
advantages which I have named, everybody so 
eager to instruct her, she so willing to learn — 
everything so new and delightful to her, how 
could it happen otherwise ? she in a short time 
became a little prodigy. What best pleased 
Lady Harriet was, after she had conquered 
the first difficulties, she discovered a wonderful 
talent for music. Here she was her mother's 
own girl indeed — she had the same sweet- 
toned voice — the same delicate finger. Her 
musical governess had little now to do ; for as 
soon as Lady Harriet perceived this excellence 
in her, she gave up all company, and devoted 
her whole time to instructing her daughter in 
this science. 

Nothing makes the heart ache with such a 
hopeless, heavy pain, as envy. 

I had felt deeply before, but till now I could 
not be said to envy Miss Lesley. — All day 
long the notes of the harp or the piano spoke 
sad sounds to me, of the loss of a loved 
mother's heart. 

To have in a manner two mothers, and Miss 
Lesley to engross them both, was too much 
indeed. 

It was at this time that one day I had been 
wearied with hearing Lady Harriet play one 
long piece of Haydn's music after another to 
her enraptured daughter. We were to walk 
with our governess to Dr. Wheelding's that 
morning ; and after Lady Harriet had left the 
room, and we were quite ready for our walk, 
Miss Lesley would not leave the instrument 
for I know not how long. 

It was on that day that I thought she was 
not quite honest in her expressions of joy at 
the sight of my poor mother, who had been 



waiting at the garden-gate near two hours to 
see her arrive ; yet she might be, for the music 
had put her in remarkably good spirits that 
morning. 

the music quite, quite won Lady Harriet's 
heart ! Till Miss Lesley began to play so well 
she often lamented the time it would take 
before her daughter would have the air of a 
person of fashion's child. It was my part of 
the general instruction to give her lessons on 
this head. We used to make a kind of play of 
it, which we called lectures on fashionable 
manners : it was a pleasant amusement to me, 
a sort of keeping up the memory of past times. 
But now the music was always in the way. 
The last time it was talked of, Lady Harriet 
said her daughter's time was too precious to 
be taken up with such trifling. 

1 must own that the music had that effect on 
Miss Lesley, as to render these lectures less 
necessary, which I will explain to you ; but 
first let me assure you, that Lady Harriet was 
by no means in the habit of saying things of 
this kind. It was almost a solitary instance ; 
I could give you a thousand instances the very 
reverse of this, in her as well as in Sir Edward. 
How kindly, how frequently, would they re- 
mind me, that to me alone it was owing that 
they ever knew their child ! calling the day on 
which I was a petitioner for the admittance of 
Ann into the house the blessed birth-day of 
their generous girl. 

Neither dancing, nor any foolish lectures, 
could do much for Miss Lesley ; she remained 
for some time wanting in gracefulness of 
carriage ; but all that is usually attributed to 
dancing, music finally effected. When she was 
sitting before the instrument, a resemblance to 
her mother became apparent to every eye. 
Her attitudes and the expression of her coun- 
tenance were the very same. This soon followed 
her into everything ; all was ease and natural 
grace : for the music, and with it the idea of 
Lady Harriet, was always in her thoughts. It 
was a pretty sight to see the daily improvement 
in her person, even to me, poor envious girl 
that I was. 

Soon after Lady Harriet had hurt me, by 
calling my little efforts to improve her daughter 
trifling, she made me lar^e amends, in a very 
kind and most unreserved conversation that 
she held with me. 

She told me all the struggles she had had at 
first to feel a maternal tenderness for her 
daughter ; and she frankly confessed, that she 
had now gained so much on her affections that 
she feared she had too much neglected the 
solemn promise she had made to me,IVewr to 
forget how long she had loved me as her child. 

Encouraged by her returning kindness, I 
owned how much I had suffered, and ventured 
to express my fears, that I had hardly courage 
enough to bear the sight of my former friends, 
under a new designation, as I must now appear 



THE FATHER'S WEDDING-DAY. 



s:> 



to them, on our removal to London, which was 
expected to take place in a short time. 

A few days after this, she told me, in the 
gentlest manner possible, that Sir Edward and 
herself were of opinion it would conduce to 
my happiness to pass a year or two at school. 

I knew that this proposal was kindly intended 



to spare me the mortification I so much 
dreaded ; therefore I endeavoured to submit 
to my hard fate with cheerfulness, and pre- 
pared myself, not without reluctance, to quit 
a mansion which had been the scene of so many 
enjoyments, and latterly of such very different 
feelings. 



IV. 



ELINOR FORESTER. 



When I was very young, I had the misfor- 
tune to lose my mother. My father very soon 
married again. The morning of the day on 
which that event took place, my father set me 
on his knee, and, as he often used to do after 
the death of my mother, he called me his dear 
little orphaned Elinor, and then he asked me if 
I loved Miss Saville. I replied, " Yes." Then 
he said, this dear lady was going to be so kind 
as to be married to him, and that she was to 
live with us, and be my mamma. My father 
told me this with such pleasure in his looks, 
that I thought it must be a very fine thing in- 
deed to have a new mamma ; and on his saying 
it was time for me to be dressed against his 
return from church, I ran in great spirits to tell 
the good news in the nursery. I found my 
maid and the housemaid looking out of the 
window to see my father get into his carriage, 
which was newly painted : the servants had new 
liveries, and fine white ribands in their hats ; 
and then I perceived my father had left off his 
mourning. The maids were dressed in new 
coloured gowns and white ribands. On the 
table I saw a new muslin frock, trimmed with 
fine lace, ready for me to put on. I skipped 
about the room quite in an ecstacy. 

When the carriage drove from the door, the 
housekeeper came in to bring the maids' new 
white gloves. I repeated to her the words I 
had just heard, that that dear lady, Miss 
Saville, was going to be married to papa, and 
that she was to live with us, and be my 
mamma. 

The housekeeper shook her head, and said, 
" Poor thing ! how soon children forget every- 
thing!" 

I could not imagine what she meant by my 
forgetting everything, for I instantly recollected 
poor mamma used to say I had an excellent 
memory. 

The women began to draw on their white 
gloves, and the seams rending in several places, 
Ann said, "This is just the way our gloves 
served us at my mistress's funeral." The other 
checked her, and said " Hush !" I was then 
thinking of some instances in which my mamma 



had praised my memory, and this reference to 
her funeral fixed her idea in my mind. 

From the time of her death no one had ever 
spoken to me of my mamma, and I had appa- 
rently forgotten her ; yet I had a habit, which 
perhaps had not been observed, of taking my 
little stool, which had been my mamma's foot- 
stool, and a doll which my mamma had dressed 
for me while she was sitting in her elbow-chair, 
her head supported with pillows. With these 
in my hands, I used to go to the door of the 
room in which I had seen her in her last ill- 
ness ; and after trying to open it, and peeping 
through the key-hole, from whence I could just 
see a glimpse of the crimson curtains, I used 
to sit down on the stool before the door, and 
play with my doll, and sometimes sing to it 
mamma's pretty song of " Balow my babe ;" 
imitating, as well as I could, the weak voice in 
which she used to sing it to me. My mamma 
had a very sweet voice. I remember now the 
gentle tone in which she used to say my prattle 
did not disturb her. 

When I was dressed in my new frock, I 
wished poor mamma was alive to see how fine 
I was on papa's wedding-day, and I ran to my 
favourite station at her bed-room door. There 
I sat thinking of my mamma, and trying to 
remember exactly how she used to look ; be- 
cause I foolishly imagined that Miss Saville 
was to be changed into something like my 
own mother, whose pale and delicate appear- 
ance in her last illness, was all that I retained 
of her remembrance. 

When my father returned home with his 
bride, he walked up stairs to look for me, and 
my new mamma followed him. They found 
me at my mother's door, earnestly looking 
through the key-hole ; I was thinking so in- 
tently on my mother, that when my father 
said " Here is your new mamma, my Elinor," 
I turned round and began to cry, for no other 
reason than because she had a very high colour, 
and I remembered my mamma was very pale ; 
she had bright black eyes, my mother's were 
mild blue eyes ; and that instead of the wrap- 
ping gown and close cap in which I remembered 



54 



ELINOR FORESTER. 



my mamma, she was dressed in all her bridal 
decorations. 

I said, "Miss Saville shall not be my 
mamma," and I cried till I was sent away in 
disgrace. 

Every time I saw her for several days, the 
same notion came into my head, that she was 
not a bit more like mamma than when she was 
Miss Saville. My father was very angry when 
he saw how shy I continued to look at her; 
but she always said, "Never mind. Elinor and 
I shall soon be better friends." 

One day, when I was very naughty indeed, 
for I would not speak one word to either of 
them, my papa took his hat and walked out, 
quite in a passion. When he was gone, I 
looked up at my new mamma, expecting to see 
her very angry too ; but she was smiling, and 
looking very good-naturedly upon me ; and 
she said, " Now we are alone together, my 
pretty little daughter, let us forget papa is 
angry with us ; and tell me why you were 
peeping through that door, the day your papa 
brought me home, and you cried so at the sight 
of me." " Because mamma used to be there," 
I replied. When she heard me say this, she 
fell a crying very sadly indeed ; and I was so 
very sorry to hear her cry so, that I forgot I 
did not love her, and I went up to her 
and said, " Don't cry, I won't be naughty 
any more, I won't peep through the door any 
more." 

Then she said I had a little kind heart, and 
I should not have any occasion, for she would 
take me into the room herself ; and she rung 
the bell, and ordered the key of that room 
to be brought to her ; and the housekeeper 
brought it, and tried to persuade her not to 
go. But she said, " I must have my own way 
in this ;" and she carried me in her arms into 
my mother's room. 

Oh, I was so pleased to be taken into 
mamma's room ! I pointed out to her all the 
things that I remembered to have belonged to 
mamma, and she encouraged me to tell her all 
the little incidents which had dwelt on my 
memory concerning her. She told me, that 



she went to school with mamma when she was 
a little girl, and that I should come into this 
room with her every day when papa was gone 
out, and she would tell me stories of mamma 
when she was a little girl no bigger than 
me. 

When my father came home, we were 
walking in a garden at the back of our house, 
and I was showing her mamma's geraniums, 
and telling her what pretty flowers they had 
when mamma was alive. 

My father was astonished : and he said, " Is 
this the sullen Elinor ? what has worked this 
miracle?" "Ask no questions," she replied, 
" or you will disturb our new-born friendship. 
Elinor has promised to love me, and she says 
too that she will call me mamma." " Yes, 
I will, mamma, mamma, mamma !" I replied, 
and hung about her with the greatest fond- 
ness. 

After this, she used to pass great part of the 
mornings with me in my mother's room, which 
was now made the repository of all my play- 
things, and also my school-room. Here my 
new mamma taught me to read. I was a sad 
little dunce, and scarcely knew my letters : my 
own mamma had often said, when she got 
better she would hear me read every day ; but 
as she never got better, it was not her fault. I 
now began to learn very fast, for when I said 
my lesson well, I was always rewarded with 
some pretty story of my mother's childhood ; 
and these stories generally contained some 
little hints that were instructive to me, and 
which I greatly stood in want of ; for, between 
improper indulgence and neglect, I had many 
faulty ways. 

In this kind manner my mother-in-law has 
instructed and improved me ; and I love her 
because she was my mother's friend when they 
were young. She has been my only instructress, 
for I never went to school till I came here. 
She would have continued to teach me, but 
she has not time, for she has a little baby of 
her own now, and that is the reason I came to 
school. 



THE YOUNG MAHOMETAN. 



55 



MARGARET GREEN. 



My father has been dead nearly three years. 
Soon after his death, my mother being left in 
reduced circumstances, she was induced to 
accept the offer of Mrs. Beresford, an elderly 
lady of large fortune, to live in her house as 
her companion, and the superintendant of her 
family. This lady was my godmother, and as 
I was my mother's only child, she very kindly 
permitted her to have me with her. 

Mrs. Beresford lived in a large old family 
mansion ; she kept no company, and never 
moved except from the breakfast-parlour to 
the eating-room, and from thence to the draw- 
ing-room to tea. 

Every morning when she first saw me, she 
used to nod her head very kindly, and say, 
" How do you do, little Margaret?" But I do 
not recollect she ever spoke to me during the 
remainder of the day ; except, indeed, after I 
had read the psalms and the chapters, which 
was my daily task ; then she used constantly 
to observe that I improved in my reading, and 
frequently added, " I never heard a child read 
so distinctly." 

She had been remarkably fond of needle- 
work ; and her conversation with my mother 
was generally the history of some pieces of 
work she had formerly done ; the dates when 
they were begun, and when finished ; what 
had retarded their progress, and what had 
hastened their completion. If occasionally any 
other events were spoken of, she had no other 
chronology to reckon by than in the recollec- 
tion of what carpet, what sofa-cover, what set 
of chairs, were in the frame at that time. 

I believe my mother is not particularly fond 
of needle-work ; for in my father's lifetime I 
never saw her amuse herself in this way ; yet, 
to oblige her kind patroness, she undertook to 
finish a large carpet, which the old lady had 
just begun when her eye-sight failed her. All 
day long my mother used to sit at the frame, 
talking of the shades of the worsted, and the 
beauty of the colours — Mrs. Beresford seated 
in a chair near her, and, though her eyes were 
so dim she could hardly distinguish one colour 
from another, watching through her spectacles 
the progress of the work. 

When my daily portion of reading was over, 
I had a taste of needle-work, which generally 
lasted half-an-hour. I was not allowed to pass 
more time in reading or work, because my eyes 
were very weak, for which reason I was always 



set to read in the large-print Family Bible. I 
was very fond of reading ; and when I could 
unobserved steal a few minutes as they were 
intent on their work, I used to delight to read 
in the historical part of the Bible ; but this, 
because of my eyes, was a forbidden pleasure ; 
and the Bible never being removed out of the 
room, it was only for a short time together that 
I dared softly to lift up the leaves and peep 
into it. 

As I was permitted to walk in the garden, 
or wander about the house whenever I pleased, 
I used to leave the parlour for hours together, 
and make out my own solitary amusement as 
well as I could. My first visit was always to a 
very large hall, which, from being paved with 
marble, was called the marble hall. In this hall, 
while Mrs. Beresford's husband was living, the 
tenants used to be feasted at Christmas. 

The heads of the twelve Csesars were hung 
round the hall. Every day I mounted on the 
chairs to look at them, and to read the inscrip- 
tions underneath, till I became perfectly familiar 
with their names and features. 

Hogarth's prints were below the Caesars : I 
was very fond of looking at them, and endea- 
vouring to make out their meaning. 

An old broken battledore, and some shuttle- 
cocks with most of the feathers missing, were 
on a marble slab in one corner of the hall, 
which constantly reminded me that there had 
once been younger inhabitants here than the 
old lady and her gray-headed servants. In 
another corner stood a marble figure of a 
satyr : every day I laid my hand on his shoulder 
to feel how cold he was. 

This hall opened into a room full of family 
portraits. They were all in the dresses of for- 
mer times : some were old men and women, 
and some were children. I used to long to 
have a fairy's power to call the children down 
from their frames to play with me. One little 
girl in particular, who hung by the side of a 
glass door, which opened into the garden, I 
often invited to walk there with me, but she 
still kept her station — one arm round a little 
lamb's neck, and in her hand a large bunch of 
roses. 

From this room I usually proceeded to the 
garden. 

When I was weary of the garden I wandered 
over the rest of the house. The best suite ot 
rooms I never saw by any other light than 



SG 



MARGARET GREEN. 



what glimmered through the tops of the win- 
dow-shutters, which, however, served to show 
the carved chimney-pieces, and the curious old 
ornaments about the rooms ; but the worked 
furniture and carpets, of which I heard such con- 
stant praises, I could have but an imperfect sight 
of, peeping under the covers which were kept 
over them, by the dim light ; for I constantly 
lifted up a corner of the envious cloth, that 
hid these highly-praised rarities from my view. 

The bed-rooms were also regularly explored 
by me, as well to admire the antique furniture, 
as for the sake of contemplating the tapestry 
hangings, which were full of Bible history. 
The subject of the one which chiefly attracted 
my attention was Hagar and her son Ishmael. 
Every day I admired the beauty of the youth, 
and pitied the forlorn state of him and his 
mother in the wilderness. At the end of the 
gallery into which these tapestry rooms opened 
was one door, which, having often in vain at- 
tempted to open, I concluded to be locked ; 
and finding myself shut out, I was very desirous 
of seeing what it contained ; and though still 
foiled in the attempt, I every day endeavoured 
to turn the lock, which, whether by constantly 
trying I loosened, being probably a very old 
one, or that the door was not locked but 
fastened tight by time, I know not — to" my 
great joy, as I was one day trying the lock as 
usual, it gave way, and I found myself in this 
so long desired room. 

It proved to be a very large library. This 
was indeed a precious discovery. I looked 
round on the books with the greatest delight. 
I thought I would read them every one. I now 
forsook all my favourite haunts, and passed all 
my time here. I took down first one book, 
then another. 

If you never spent whole mornings alone in 
a large library, you cannot conceive the plea- 
sure of taking down books in the constant 
hope of finding an entertaining book among 
them ; yet, after many days, meeting with 
nothing but disappointment, it becomes less 
pleasant. All the books within my reach were 
folios of the gravest cast. I could understand 
very little that I read in them, and the old 
dark print and the length of the lines made 
my eyes ache. 

When I had almost resolved to give up the 
search as fruitless, I perceived a volume lying 
in an obscure corner of the room. I opened it. 
It was a charming print ; the letters were 
almost as large as the type of the Family Bible. 
In the first page I looked into, I saw the name 
of my favourite Ishmael, whose face I knew 
so well from the tapestry, and whose history I 
had often read in the Bible. 

I sate myself down to read this book with 
the greatest eagerness. The title of it was 
" Mahometism Explained." It was a very im- 
proper book, for it contained a false history of 
Abraham and his descendants. 



I shall be quite ashamed to tell you the 
strange effect it had on me. I know it was very 
wrong to read any book without permission to 
do so. If my time were to come over again, I 
would go and tell my mamma that there was a 
library in the house, and ask her to permit me 
to read a little while every day in some book 
that she might think proper to select for me. 
But unfortunately I did not then recollect that 
I ought to do this : the reason of my strange 
forgetfulness might be, that my mother, fol- 
lowing the example of her patroness, had almost 
wholly discontinued talking to me. I scarcely 
ever heard a word addressed to me from morn- 
ing to night. If it were not for the old servants 
saying, " Good morning to you, Miss Margaret," 
as they passed me in the long passages, I 
should have been the greatest part of the day 
in as perfect a solitude as Robinson Crusoe. It 
must have been because I was never spoken to 
at all, that I forgot what was right and what 
was wrong, for I do not believe that I ever 
remembered I was doing wrong all the time I 
was reading in the library. A great many of 
the leaves in "Mahometism Explained" were 
torn out, but enough remained to make me 
imagine that Ishmael was the true son of Abra- 
ham : I read here, that the true descendants of 
Abraham were known by a light which streamed 
from the middle of their foreheads. It said, 
that Ishmael's father and mother first saw this 
light streaming from his forehead, as he was 
lying asleep in the cradle. I was very sorry 
so many of the leaves were torn out, for it was 
as entertaining as a fairy tale. I used to read 
the history of Ishmael, and then go and look at 
him in the tapestry, and then read his history 
again. When I had almost learned the history 
of Ishmael by heart, I read the rest of the book, 
and then I came to the history of Mahomet, 
who was there said to be the last descendant 
of Abraham. 

If Ishmael had engaged so much of my 
thoughts, how much more so must Mahomet ? 
His history was full of nothing but wonders 
from the beginning to the end. The book 
said that those who believed all the wonderful 
stories which were related of Mahomet were 
called Mahometans, and True Believers : — I 
concluded that I must be a Mahometan, for I 
believed every word I read. 

At length I met with something which I also 
believed, though I trembled as I read it : — this 
was, that after we are dead, we are to pass over 
a narrow bridge, which crosses a bottomless 
gulf. The bridge was described to be no wider 
than a silken thread ; and it is said that all 
who were not Mahometans would slip on one 
side of this bridge, and drop into the tre- 
mendous gulf that had no bottom. I considered 
myself as a Mahometan, yet I was perfectly 
giddy whenever I thought of passing over this 
bridge. 

One day, seeing the old lady totter across 



THE YOUNG MAHOMETAN. 



57 



the room, a sudden terror seized me, for I 
thought how would she ever be able to get 
over the bridge. Then too it was that I first 
recollected that my mother would also be in 
imminent danger ; for I imagined she had never 
heard the name of Mahomet, because I foolishly 
conjectured this book had been locked up for 
ages in the library, and was utterly unknown 
to the rest of the world. 

All my desire was now to tell them the 
discovery I had made ; for I thought, when 
they knew of the existence of " Mahometism 
Explained," they would read it, and become 
Mahometans, to ensure themselves a safe 
passage over the silken bridge. But it wanted 
more courage than I possessed to break the 
matter to my intended converts ; I must 
acknowledge that I had been reading without 
leave ; and the habit of never speaking, or 
being spoken to, considerably increased the 
difficulty. 

My anxiety on this subject threw me into 
a fever. I was so ill, that my mother thought 
it necessary to sleep in the same room with me. 
In the middle of the night I could not resist 
the strong desire I felt to tell her what preyed 
so much on my mind. 

I awoke her out of a sound sleep, and begged 
she would be so kind as to be a Mahometan. 
She was very much alarmed, for she thought 
I was delirious, which I believe I was ; for I 
tried to explain the reason of my request, but 
it was in such an incoherent manner, that she 
could not at all comprehend what I was talking 
about. 

The next day a physician was sent for, and 
he discovered by several questions that he put 
to me that I had read myself into a fever. He 
gave me medicines, and ordered me to be kept 
very quiet, and said, he hoped in a few days I 
should be very well ; but as it was a new case 
to him, he never having attended a little 
Mahometan before, if any lowness continued 
after he had removed the fever, he would, with 
my mother's permission, take me home with 
him to study this extraordinary case at his 
leisure ; and added, that he could then hold a 
consultation with his wife, who was often very 
useful to him in prescribing remedies for the 
maladies of his younger patients. 

In a few days he fetched me away. His 
wife was in the carriage with him. Having 
heard what he said about her prescriptions, I 
expected, between the doctor and his lady, to 
undergo a severe course of medicine, especially 
as I heard him very formally ask her advice 
what was good for a Mahometan fever, the 
moment after he had handed me into the 
carriage. She studied a little while, and 
then she said, a ride to Harlow-fair would 



not be amiss. He said he was entirely of her 
opinion, because it suited him to go there to 
buy a horse. 

During the ride they entered into conversa- 
tion with me, and in answer to their questions, 
I was relating to them the solitary manner in 
which I had passed my time : how I found out 
the library, and what I had read in the fatal 
book which had so heated my imagination — 
when we arrived at the fair ; and Ishmael, 
Mahomet, and the narrow bridge, vanished out 
of my head in an instant. 

Oh ! what a cheerful sight it was to me to 
see so many happy faces assembled together : 
walking up and down between the rows of 
booths that were full of showy things : ribands, 
laces, toys, cakes, and sweetmeats ! While 
the doctor was gone to buy his horse, his 
kind lady let me stand as long as I pleased 
at the booths, and gave me many things 
which she saw I particularly admired. My 
needle-case, my pin-cushion, indeed my work- 
basket, and all its contents, are presents which 
she purchased for me at this fair. After we 
returned home, she played with me all the 
evening at a geographical game, which she 
also bought for me at this cheerful fair. 

The next day she invited some young 
ladies of my own age to spend the day with 
me. She had a swing put up in the garden 
for us, and a room cleared of the furniture, 
that we might play at blindman's-buff. One 
of the liveliest of the girls, who had taken on 
herself 'the direction of our sports, she kept to 
be my companion all the time I staid with her, 
and every day contrived some new amusement 
for us. 

Yet this good lady did not suffer all my 
time to pass in mirth and gaiety. Before I 
went home, she explained to me very seriously 
the error into which I had fallen. I found 
that so far from "Mahometism Explained" 
being a book concealed only in this library, 
it was well known to every person of the least 
information. 

The Turks, she told me, were Mahometans, 
and that, if the leaves of my favourite book 
had not been torn out, I should have read 
that the author of it did not mean to give 
the fabulous stories here related as true, but 
only wrote it as giving a history of what the 
Turks, who are a very ignorant people, believe 
concerning the impostor Mahomet, who feigned 
himself to be a descendant of Ishmael. By 
the good offices of the physician and his lady, 
I was carried home at the end of a month, 
perfectly cured of the error into which I 
had fallen, and very much ashamed of having 
believed so many absurdities. 



58 



EMILY BARTON. 



VI. 
EMILY BARTON. 



When I was a very young- child I remember 
residing with an uncle and aunt who live in 

shire. I think I remained there near a 

twelvemonth. I am ignorant of the cause of 
my being so long left there by my parents, 
who, though they were remarkably fond of 
me, never came to see me during all that time. 
As I did not know I should ever have occasion 
to relate the occurrences of my life, I never 
thought of inquiring the reason. 

I am just able to recollect, that when I first 
went there, I thought it was a fine thing to 
live in the country, and play with my little 
cousins in the garden all day long ; and I also 
recollect that I soon found that it was a very 
dull thing to live in the country with little 
cousins who have a papa and mamma in the 
house, while my own dear papa and mamma 
were in London many miles away. 

I have heard my papa observe, girls who are 
not well managed are a most quarrelsome race 
of little people. My cousins very often quar- 
relled with me, and then they always said, " I 
will go and tell my mamma, cousin Emily ; " 
and then I used to be very disconsolate, 
because I had no mamma to complain to of my 
grievances. 

My aunt always took Sophia's part, because 
she was so young ; and she never suffered me 
to oppose Mary, or Elizabeth, because they 
were older than I. 

The playthings were all the property of 
one or other of my cousins. The large dolls 
belonged to Mary, or Elizabeth, and the pretty 
little wax dolls were dressed on purpose for 
Sophia, who always began to cry the instant I 
touched them. I had nothing that I could call 
my own, but one pretty book of stories ; and 
one day, as Sophia was endeavouring to take it 
from me, and I was trying to keep it, it was all 
torn to pieces ; and my aunt would not be 
angry with her. She only said, Sophia was a 
little baby, and did not know any better. My 
uncle promised to buy me another book, but 
he never remembered it. Very often, when he 
came home in the evening, he used to say, " I 
wonder what I have got in my pocket ; " and 
then they all crowded round him, and I used 
to creep towards him, and think, Maybe it is 
my book that my uncle has got in his pocket. 
But, no ; nothing ever came out for me. Yet 
the first sight of a plaything, even if it be not 
one's own, is always a cheerful thing, and a 



new toy would put them in a good humour for 
a while, and they would say, " Here, Emily, 
look what I have got. You may take it in 
your own hand and look at it." But the 
pleasure of examining it was sure to be stopped 
in a short time by the old story of " Give that 
to me again ; you know that is mine." Nobody 
could help, I think, being a little out of humour 
if they were always served so ; but if I showed 
any signs of discontent, my aunt always told 
my uncle I was a little peevish, fretful thing, 
and gave her more trouble than all her own 
children put together. My aunt would often 
say, what a happy thing it was to have such 
affectionate children as hers were. She was 
always praising my cousins because they were 
affectionate ; that was sure to be her word. 
She said I had not one atom of affection in my 
disposition, for that no kindness ever made the 
least impression on me. And she would say 
all this with Sophia seated on her lap, and the 
two eldest perhaps hanging round their papa, 
while I was so dull to see them taken so 
much notice of, and so sorry that I was not 
affectionate, that I did not know what to do 
with myself. 

Then there was another complaint against 
me ; that I was so shy before strangers. "When- 
ever any strangers spoke to me, before I had 
time to think what answer I should give, Mary 
or Elizabeth would say, " Emily is so shy, she 
will never speak." Then I. thinking I was 
very shy, would creep into a corner of the 
room, and be ashamed to look up while the 
company staid. 

Though I often thought of my papa and 
mamma, by degrees the remembrance of their 
persons faded out of my mind. When I tried 
to think how they used to look, the faces of 
my cousins' papa and mamma only came into 
my mind. 

One morning, my uncle and aunt went abroad 
before breakfast, and took my cousins with 
them. They very often went out for whole 
days together and left me at home. Sometimes 
they said it was because they could not take so 
many children ; and sometimes they said it 
was because I was so shy, it was no amusement 
to me to go abroad. 

That morning I was very solitary indeed, for 
they had even taken the dog Sancho with them, 
and I was very fond of him. I went all about 
the house and garden to look for him. Nobody 



VISIT TO THE COUSINS. 



51) 



could tell me where Sancho was, and then I 
went into the front court and called," Sancho, 
Sancho." An old man that worked in the 
garden was there, and he said Sancho was 
gone with his master. Oh, how sorry I was ! 
I began to cry, for Sancho and I used to amuse 
ourselves for hours together when everybody 
was gone out. I cried till I heard the mail- 
coachman's horn, and then I ran to the gate to 
see the mail-coach go past. It stopped before 
our gate, and a gentleman got out, and the 
moment he saw me he took me in his arms, 
and kissed me, and said I was Emily Barton, 
and asked me why the tears were on my little 
pale cheeks ; and I told him the cause of my 
distress. The old man asked him to walk into 
the house, and was going to call one of the 
servants ; but the gentleman would not let him, 
and he said, " Go on with your work, I want to 
talk to this little girl before I go into the 
house." Then he sat down on a bench which 
was in the court, and asked me many questions ; 
and I told him all my little troubles, for he 
was such a good-natured looking gentleman 
that I prattled very freely to him. I told him 
all I have told you, and more, for the unkind 
treatment I met with was more fresh in my 
mind than it is now. Then he called to the old 
man, and desired him to fetch a post-chaise, 
and gave him money that he should make 
haste, and I never saw the old man walk so 
fast before. When he had been gone a little 
while, the gentleman said, " Will you walk 
with me down the road to meet the chaise, and 
you shall ride in it a little way along with me." 
I had nothing on, not even my old straw bonnet 
that I used to wear in the garden ; but I did 
not mind that, and I ran by his side a good 
way, till we met the chaise, and the old man 
riding with the driver. The gentleman said, 
" Get down and open the door," and then he 
lifted me in. The old man looked in a sad 
fright, and said " Oh ! sir, I hope you are not 
going to take the child away !" The gentleman 
threw out a small card, and bid him give that 
to his master, and calling to the post-boy to 
drive on, we lost sight of the old man in a 
minute. 

The gentleman laughed very much, and said, 
" We have frightened the old man, he thinks 
I am going to run away with you ;" and I 
laughed, and thought it a very good joke ; and 
he said, " So you tell me you are very shy ;" 
and I replied, " Yes, sir, I am, before stran- 
gers :" he said, " So I perceive you are," and 
then he laughed again, and I laughed, though 
I did not know why. We had such a merry 
ride, laughing all the way at one thing or 
another, till we came to a town where the 
chaise stopped, and he ordered some breakfast. 
When I got out I began to shiver a little ; for 
it was the latter end of autumn, the leaves were 
falling off the trees, and the air blew very cold. 
Then he desired the waiter to go and order a 



straw-hat, and a little warm coat for me ; and 
when the milliner came, he told her he had 
stolen a little heiress, and we were going to 
Gretna-Green in such a hurry, that the young 
lady had no time to put on her bonnet before 
she came out. The milliner said I was a pretty 
little heiress, and she wished us a pleasant 
journey. When we had breakfasted, and I 
was equipped in my new coat and bonnet, I 
jumped into the chaise again as warm and as 
lively as a little bird. 

When it grew dark, we entered a large 
city ; the chaise began to roll over the stones, 
and I saw the lamps ranged along London 
streets. 

Though we had breakfasted and dined upon 
the road, and I had got out of one chaise into 
another many times, and was now riding on in 
the dark, I never once considered where I 
was, or where I was going to. I put my head 
out of the chaise window, and admired those 
beautiful lights. I was sorry when the chaise 
stopped, and I could no longer look at the 
brilliant rows of lighted lamps. 

Taken away by a stranger under a pretence 
of a short ride, and brought quite to London, 
do you not expect some perilous end of this 
adventure ? Ah ! it was my papa himself, 
though I did not know who he was, till after 
he had put me into my mamma's arms, and 
told her how he had run away with his own 
little daughter. "It is your papa, my dear, 
that has brought you to your own home." — 
" This is your mamma, my love," they both 
exclaimed at once. Mamma cried for joy to 
see me, and she wept again, when she heard 
my papa tell what a neglected child I had 
been at my uncle's. This he had found out, he 
said, by my own innocent prattle, and that he 
was so offended with his brother, my uncle, 
that he would not enter his house ; and then 
he said, what a little happy good child I had 
been all the way, and that when he found I 
did not know him, he would not tell me who 
he was, for the sake of the pleasant surprise 
it would be to me. It was a surprise and a 
happiness indeed, after living with unkind 
relations, all at once to know I was at home 
with my own dear papa and mamma. 

My mamma ordered tea. Whenever I hap- 
pen to like my tea very much, I always think 
of the delicious cup of tea mamma gave us 
after our journey. I think I see the urn 
smoking before me now, and papa wheeling 
the sofa round, that I might sit between them 
at the table. 

Mamma called me little run-away, and said 
it was very well it was only papa. I told her 
how we frightened the old gardener,and opened 
my eyes, to show her how he stared, and how 
my papa made the milliner believe we were 
going to Gretna-Green. Mamma looked grave, 
and said she was almost frightened to find 
I had been so fearless ; but I promised her 



60 



EMILY BARTON. 



another time I would not go into a post-chaise 
with a gentleman, without asking him who he 
was : and then she laughed, and seemed very 
well satisfied. 

Mamma, to my fancy, looked very hand- 
some. She was very nicely dressed, quite like 
a fine lady. I held up my head, and felt very 
proud that I had such a papa and mamma. I 
thought to myself, " O dear, my cousins' papa 
and mamma are not to be compared to mine." 
Papa said, " What makes you bridle and 
simper so, Emily ?" Then I told him all that 
was in my mind. Papa asked if I did not 
think him as pretty as I did mamma. I could 
not say much for his beauty, but I told him he 
was a much finer gentleman than my uncle, 
and that I liked him the first moment I saw 
him, because he looked so good-natured. He 
said, "Well, then, he must be content with 
that half praise ; but he had always thought 
himself very handsome." " O dear !" said I, 
and fell a -laughing, till I spilled my tea, and 
mamma called me a little awkward girl. 

The next morning my papa was going to the 
Bank to receive some money, and he took 
mamma and me with him, that I might have a 
ride through London streets. Every one that 
has been in London must have seen the Bank, 
and therefore you may imagine what an effect 
the fine large rooms, and the bustle and con- 
fusion of people, had on me, who was grown 
such a little wondering rustic, that the crowded 
streets and the fine shops alone kept me in 
continual admiration. 

As we were returning home down Cheap- 
side, papa said, " Emily shall take home some 
little books. Shall we order the coachman to 
the corner of St. Paul's churchyard, or shall 
we go to the Juvenile Library in Skinner- 
street ?" Mamma said she would go to Skinner- 
street, for she wanted to look at the new 
buildings there. Papa bought me seven new 
books, and the lady in the shop persuaded him 
to take more ; but mamma said that was quite 
enough at present. 

We went home by Ludgate-hill, because 
mamma wanted to buy something there ; and 
while she went into a shop, papa heard me 
read in one of my new books, and said he was 
glad to find I could read so well : for I had 
forgot to tell him my aunt used to hear me 
read every day. 

My papa stopped the coach opposite to St. 
Dunstan's church, that I might see the great 
iron figures strike upon the bell, to give notice 
that it was a quarter of an hour past two. We 
waited some time, that I might see this sight, 
but just at the moment they were striking, I 
happened to be looking at a toy-shop that was 
on the other side of the way, and unluckily 
missed it. Papa said, " Never mind ; we will 
go into the toy-shop, and I dare say we shall 
find something that will console you for your 
disappointment." " Do," said mamma, " for 



I knew Miss Pearson, who keeps this shop, at 
Weymouth, when I was a little girl, not much 
older than Emily. Take notice of her : — she 
is a very intelligent old lady." Mamma made 
herself known to Miss Pearson, and showed 
me to her, but I did not much mind what they 
said ; no more did papa — for we were busy 
among the toys. 

A large wax-doll, a baby-house completely 
furnished, and several other beautiful toys, were 
bought for me. I sat and looked at them with 
an amazing deal of pleasure as we rode home 
— they quite filled up one side of the coach. 

The joy I discovered at possessing things I 
could call my own, and the frequent repetition 
of the words, My own, my own, gave my mamma 
some uneasiness. She justly feared that the 
cold treatment I had experienced at my uncle's 
had made me selfish, and therefore she invited 
a little girl to spend a few days with me, to 
see, as she has since told me, if I should not 
be liable to fall into the same error from which 
I had suffered so much at my uncle's. 

As my mamma had feared, so the event 
proved ; for I quickly adopted my cousins' 
selfish ideas, and gave the young lady notice 
that they were my own playthings, and she 
must not amuse herself with them any longer 
than I permitted her. Then presently I took 
occasion to begin a little quarrel with her, and 
said, u I have got a mammanow, Miss Frederica, 
as well as you, and I will go and tell her, and 
she will not let you play with my doll any longer 
than I please, because it is my own doll." And 
I very well remember I imitated, as nearly as 
I could, the haughty tone in which my cousins 
used to speak to me. 

" Oh fie ! Emily," said my mamma ; a can you 
be the little girl who used to be so distressed 
because your cousins would not let you play 
with their dolls ? Do you not see you are 
doing the very same unkind thing to your 
play-fellow that they did to you \ " Then I 
saw as plain as could be what a naughty girl I 
was, and I promised not to do so any more. 

A lady was sitting with mamma, and mamma 
said, " I believe I must pardon you this once, 
but I hope never to see such a thing again. 
This lady is Miss Frederica's mamma, and I am 
quite ashamed that she should be witness to 
your inhospitality to her daughter, particularly 
as she was so kind to come on purpose to invite 
you to a share in her own private box at the 
theatre this evening. Her carriage is waiting 
at the door to take us, but how can we accept 
of the invitation after what has happened ? " 
The lady begged it might all be forgotten ; and 
mamma consented that I should go, andshesaid, 
" But I hope, my dear Emily, when you are 
sitting in the playhouse, you will remember 
that pleasures are far more delightful when 
they are shared among numbers. If the whole 
theatre were your own, and you were sitting by 
yourself to see the performance, how dull it 



VISIT TO THE COUSINS. 



61 



would seem, to what you will find it, with so 
many happy faces around us, all amused with 
the same thing ! " I hardly knew what my 
mamma meant, for I had never seen a play ; hut 
when I got there after the curtain drew up, I 
looked up towards the galleries, and down into 
the pit, and into all the boxes, and then I 
knew what a pretty sight it was to see a num- 
ber of happy faces. I was very well convinced, 
that it would not have been half so cheerful, if 
the theatre had been my own, to have sat there 
by myself. From that time, whenever I felt 
inclined to be selfish, I used to remember the 
theatre, where the mamma of the young lady I 
had been so rude to gave me a seat in her own 
box. There is nothing in the world so charm- 
ing as going to a play. All the way there I 
was as dull and as silent as I used to be in 

shire, because I was so sorry mamma 

had been displeased with me. Just as the 
coach stopped, Miss Frederica said, " Will you 
be friends with me, Emily ? " and I replied, 
"Yes, if you please, Frederica ;" and we went 
hand-in-hand together into the house. I did 
not speak any more till we entered the box, 
but after that, I was as lively as if nothing at 
all had happened. 

I shall never forget how delighted I was at 
the first sight of the house. My little friend 
and I were placed together in the front, while 
our mammas retired to the back part of the box 
to chat by themselves, for they had been so 
kind as to come very early, that I might look 
about me before the performance began. 

Frederica had been very often at a play. 
She was very useful in telling me what every- 
thing was. She made me observe how the 
common people were coming bustling down 
the benches in the galleries, as if they were 
afraid they should lose their places. She told 
me what a crowd these poor people had to go 



through, before they got into the house. Then 
she showed me how leisurely they all came 
into the pit, and looked about them before they 
took their seats. She gave me a charming 
description of the king and queen at the play, 
and snowed me where they sat, and told me 
how the princesses were dressed. It was a 
pretty sight to see the remainder of the candles 
lighted ; and so it was to see the musicians 
come up from under the stage. I admired the 
music very much, and I asked if that was the 
play. Frederica laughed at my ignorance, and 
then she told me, when the play began, the 
green curtain would draw up to the sound of 
soft music, and I should hear a lady, dressed in 
black, say, 

" Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast ; " 

and those were the very first words the actress, 
whose name was Almeria, spoke. When the 
curtain began to draw up, and I saw the bottom 
of her black petticoat, and heard the soft music, 
what an agitation I was in ! But before that 
we had long to wait. Frederica told me we 
should wait till all the dress-boxes were full, 
and then the lights would pop up under the 
orchestra : the second music would play, and 
then the play would begin. 

This play was the Mourning Bride. It was 
a very moving tragedy ; and after that, when 
the curtain dropped, and I thought it was all 
over, I saw the most diverting pantomime that 
ever was seen. I made a strange blunder the 
next day, for I told papa that Almeria was 
married to Harlequin at last ; but I assure you 
I meant to say Columbine, for I knew very well 
that Almeria was married to Alphonso ; for 
she said she was, in the first scene. She thought 
he was dead, but she found him again just as 
I did my papa and mamma, when she least 
expected it. 



62 



MARIA HOWE. 



VII. 



MARIA HOWE. 



I was brought up in the country. From my 
infancy I was always a weak and tender-spirited 
girl, subject to fears and depressions. My 
parents, and particularly my mother, were of 
a very different disposition. They were what 
is usually called gay : they loved pleasure, and 
parties, and visiting ; but as they found the 
turn of my mind to be quite opposite, they gave 
themselves little trouble about me, but upon 
such occasions generally left me to my choice, 
which was much oftener to stay at home, and 
indulge myself in my solitude, than to join in 
their rambling visits. I was always fond of 
being alone, yet always in a manner afraid. 
There was a book closet which led into my 
mother's dressing-room. Here I was eternally 
fond of being shut up by myself, to take down 
whatever volumes I pleased, and pore upon 
them, no matter whether they were fit for my 
years or no, or whether I understood them. 
Here, when the weather would not permit my 
going into the dark walk, my walk, as it was 
called, in the garden ; here, when my parents 
have been from home, I have staid for hours 
together, till the loneliness which pleased me 
so at first has at length become quite frightful, 
and I have rushed out of the closet into the in- 
habited parts of the house, and sought refuge 
in the lap of some one of the female servants, 
or of my aunt, who would say, seeing me look 
pale, that Maria had been frightening herself 
with some of those nasty boohs : so she used to 
call my favourite volumes, which I would not 
have parted with, no not with one of the least 
of them, if I had had the choice to be made a 
fine princess, and to govern the world. But 
my aunt was no reader. She used to excuse 
herself, and say that reading hurt her eyes. I 
have been naughty enough to think that this 
was only an excuse, for I found that my aunt's 
weak eyes did not prevent her from poring ten 
hours a day upon her prayer-book, or her 
favourite Thomas a Kempis. But this was 
always her excuse for not reading any of the 
books I recommended. My aunt was my 
father's sister. She had never been married. 
My father was a good deal older than my 
mother, and my aunt was ten years older than 
my father. As I was often left at home with 
her, and as my serious disposition so well agreed 
with hers, an intimacy grew up between the 
old lady and me, and she would often say, that 
she loved only one person in the world, and 



that was me. Not that she and my parents 
were on very bad terms ; but the old lady did 
not feel herself respected enough. The atten- 
tion and fondness which she showed to me, 
conscious as I was that I was almost the only 
being she felt anything like fondness to, made 
me love her, as it was natural ; indeed I am 
ashamed to say, that I fear I almost loved her 
better than both my parents put together. But 
there was an oddness, a silence about my aunt, 
which was never interrupted but by her occa- 
sional expressions of love to me, that made me 
stand in fear of her. An odd look from under 
her spectacles would sometimes scare me 
away, when I had been peering up in her face 
to make her kiss me. Then she had a way of 
muttering to herself, which, though it was good 
words and religious words that she was mum- 
bling, somehow I did not like. My weak spirits, 
and the fears I was subject to, always made me 
afraid of any personal singularity or oddness in 
any one. I am ashamed, ladies, to lay open so 
many particulars of our family ; but indeed it 
is necessary to the understanding of what I am 
going to tell you of a very great weakness, if 
not wickedness, which I was guilty of towards 
my aunt. But I must return to my studies, 
and tell you what books I found in the closet, 
and what reading I chiefly admired. There 
was a great Book of Martyrs in which I used 
to read, or rather I used to spell out meanings ; 
for I was too ignorant to make out many 
words ; but there it was written all about 
those good men who chose to be burned alive, 
rather than forsake their religion, and become 
naughty papists. Some words I could make 
out, some I could not ; but I made out enough 
to fill my little head with vanity, and I used to 
think I was so courageous I could be burned 
too, and I would put my hands upon the flames 
which were pictured in the pretty pictures 
which the book had, and feel them ; but you 
know, ladies, there is a great difference between 
the flames in a picture, and real fire ; and I am 
now ashamed of the conceit which I had of my 
own courage, and think how poor a martyr I 
should have made in those days. Then there 
was a book not so big, but it had pictures in ; it 
was called Culpepper's Herbal ; it was full of 
pictures of plants and herbs, but I did not 
much care for that. Then there was Salmon's 
Modern History, out of which I picked a good 
deal. It had pictures of Chinese gods, and the 



THE EFFECT OF WITCH STORIES. 



63 



great hooded serpent, which ran strangely in 
my fancy. There were some law-books too,, 
but the old English frightened me from reading 
them. But above all, what I relished, was 
Stackhouse's History of the Bible, where there 
was the picture of the Ark, and all the beasts 
getting into it. This delighted me, because it 
puzzled me ; and many an aching head have 
I got with poring into it, and contriving how it 
might be built, with such and such rooms to 
hold all the world, if there should be another 
flood ; and sometimes settling what pretty beasts 
should be saved and what should not, for I 
would have no ugly or deformed beast in my 
pretty ark. But this was only a piece of folly 
and vanity, that a little reflection might cure 
me of. Foolish girl that I was ! to suppose 
that any creature is really ugly, that has all its 
limbs contrived with heavenly wisdom, and 
was doubtless formed to some beautiful end, 
though a child cannot comprehend it — Doubt- 
less a frog or a toad is not uglier in itself than 
a squirrel or a pretty green lizard ; but we 
want understanding to see it. 

[Here I must remind you, my dear Miss Howe, 
that one of the young ladies smiled, and two or three 
were seen to titter, at this part of your narration, and 
you seemed, I thought, a little too angry for a girl of 
your sense and reading ; but you will remember, my 
dear, that young heads are not always able to bear 
strange and unusual assertions ; and if some elder 
person, possibly, or some book which you had found, 
had not put it into your head, you would hardly have 
discovered by your own refection, that a frog or a 
toad was equal in real loveliness to a frisking squirrel, 
or a pretty green lizard, as you call it ; not remem- 
bering that at this very time you gave the lizard the 
name of pretty, and left it out to the frog — so liable 
we are all to prejudices. But you went on with your 
story. ] 

These fancies, ladies, were not so very 
foolish or naughty, perhaps, but they may 
be forgiven in a child of six years old : but 
what I am going to tell, I shall be ashamed 
of, and repent, I hope, as long as I live. It 
will teach me not to form rash judgments. 
Besides the picture of the Ark, and many 
others which I have forgot, Stackhouse con- 
tained one picture which made more impres- 
sion upon my childish understanding than all 
the rest. It was the picture of the raising up 
of Samuel, which I used to call the Witch of 
Endor picture. I was always very fond of 
picking up stories about witches. There was 
a book called Glanvil on Witches, which used 
to lie about in this closet ; it was thumbed 
about, and showed it had been much read in 
former times. This was my treasure. Here I 
used to pick out the strangest stories. My 
not being able to read them very well pro- 
bably made them appear more strange and 
out of the way to me. But I could collect 
enough to understand that witches were old 
women who gave themselves up to do mischief 



— how by the help of spirits, as bad as them- 
selves, they lamed cattle, and made the corn 
not grow ; and how they made images of wax 
to stand for people that had done them any 
injury, or they thought had done them injury ; 
and how they burned the images before a slow 
fire, and stuck pins in them ; and the persons 
which these waxen images represented, how- 
ever far distant, felt all the pains and torments 
in good earnest, which were inflicted in show 
upon these images ; and such a horror I had 
of these wicked witches, that though I am now 
better instructed, and look upon all these 
stories as mere idle tales, and invented to fill 
people's heads with nonsense, yet I cannot 
recall to mind the horrors which I then felt, 
without shuddering, and feeling something of 
the old fit return. 

[Here, my dear Miss Howe, you may remember, 

that Miss M , the youngest of our party, 

showing some more curiosity than usual, I winked 
upon you to hasten to your story, lest the terrors which 
you were describing shoidd make too much impression 
upon a young head, and you kindly understood my 
sign, and said less upon the subject of your fears, than 
I fancy you first intended.'} 

This foolish book of witch stories had no 
pictures in it, but I made up for them out of 
my own fancy, and out of the great picture of 
the raising up of Samuel in Stackhouse. I 
was not old enough to understand the differ- 
ence there was between these silly improbable 
tales, which imputed such powers to poor old 
women, who are the most helpless things in 
the creation, and the narrative in the Bible, 
which does not say that the witch, or pre- 
tended witch, raised up the dead body of 
Samuel by her own power, but as it clearly 
appears, he was permitted by the divine will 
to appear, to confound the presumption of 
Saul ; and that the witch herself was really 
as much frightened and confounded at the 
miracle as Saul himself, not expecting a real 
appearance ; but probably having prepared 
some juggling, sleight-of-hand tricks, and sham 
appearance, to deceive the eyes of Saul : 
whereas neither she, nor any one living, had 
ever the power to raise the dead to life, but only 
He who madethemfrom thefirst. Thesereasons 
I might have read in Stackhouse itself if I had j 
been old enough, and have read them in that 
very book since I was older, but at that time I 
looked at little beyond the picture. 

These stories of witches so terrified me, that 
my sleeps were broken, and in my dreams 
I always had a fancy of a witch being in the 
room with me. I know now that it was only 
nervousness ; but though I can laugh at it now 
as well as you, ladies, if you knew what I 
suffered, you would be thankful that you have 
had sensible people about you to instruct you 
and teach you better. I was let grow up wild 
like an ill weed, and thrived accordingly. One 
night that I had been terrified in my sleep with 



u 



MARIA HOWE. 



my imaginations, I got out of bed and crept 
softly to the adjoining room. My room was 
next to where my aunt usually sat when she 
was alone. Into her room I crept for relief from 
my fears. The old lady was not yet retired 
to rest, but was sitting with her eyes half open, 
half closed ; her spectacles tottering upon her 
nose ; her head nodding over her prayer-book ; 
her lips mumbling the words as she read them, 
or half read them, in her dozing posture ; her 
grotesque appearance ; her old-fashioned dress, 
resembling what I had seen in that fatal picture 
in Stackhouse ; all this, with the dead time of 
night, as it seemed to me (for I had gone 
through my first sleep), joined to produce a 
wicked fancy in me, that the form which I had 
beheld was not my aunt, but some witch. Her 
mumbling of her prayers confirmed me in 
this shocking idea. I had read in Glanvil, of 
those wicked creatures reading their prayers 
backwards, and I thought that this was the 
operation which her lips were at this time 
employed about. Instead of flying to her 
friendly lap for that protection which I had 
so often experienced when I have been weak 
and timid, I shrunk back terrified and bewil- 
dered to my bed, where I lay in broken 
sleeps and miserable fancies, till the morning, 
which I had so much reason to wish for, came. 
My fancies a little wore away with the light, 
but an impression was fixed, which could 
not for a long time be done away. In the 
day-time, when my father and mother were 
about the house, when I saw them familiarly 
speak to my aunt, my fears all vanished ; 
and when the good creature has taken me 
upon her knees, and shown me any kind- 
ness more than ordinary, at such times I have 
melted into tears, and longed to tell her what 
naughty foolish fancies I had had of her. But 
when night returned, that figure which I had 
seen recurred — the posture, the half-closed 
eyes, the mumbling and muttering which I had 
heard — a confusion was in my head, who it was 
I had seen that night : — it was my aunt, and it 
was not my aunt : — it was that good creature 
who loved me above all the world, engaged at 
her good task of devotions — perhaps praying 
for some good to me. Again, it was a witch 
— a creature hateful to God and man, read- 
ing backwards the good prayers ; who would 



perhaps destroy me. In these conflicts of 
mind I passed several weeks, till, by a revo- 
lution in my fate, I was removed to the house 
of a female relation of my mother's in a dis- 
tant part of the country, who had come on 
, a visit to our house, and observing my lonely 
ways, and apprehensive of the ill effect of my 
mode of living, upon my health, begged leave 
to take me home to her house, to reside for a 
short time. I went, with some reluctance at 
leaving my closet, my dark walk, and even my 
aunt, who had been such a source of both 
love and terror to me. But I went, and soon 
found the grand effects of a change of scene. 
Instead of melancholy closets, and lonely 
avenues of trees, I saw lightsome rooms and 
cheerful faces ; I had companions of my own 
age ; no books were allowed me but what were 
rational and sprightly ; that gave me mirth 
or gave me instruction. I soon learned to 
laugh at witch stories ; and when I returned 
after three or four months' absence to our own 
house, my good aunt appeared to me in the 
same light in which I had viewed her from 
my infancy, before that foolish fancy pos- 
sessed me, or rather, I should say, more kind, 
more fond, more loving than before. It is 
impossible to say how much good that lady, 
the kind relation of my mother's that I spoke 
of, did to me by changing the scene. Quite a 
new turn of ideas was given to me : I became 
sociable and companionable : my parents sobn 
discovered a change in me, and I have found 
a similar alteration in them. They have been 
plainly more fond of me since that change, as 
from that time I learned to conform myself 
more to their way of living. I have never 
since had that aversion to company and going 
out with them, which used to make them 
regard me with less fondness than they would 
have wished to show. I impute almost all 
that I had to complain of in their neglect, to 
my having been a little unsociable, uncom- 
panionable mortal. I lived in this manner for 
a year or two, passing my time between our 
house and the lady's who so kindly took me 
in hand, till by her advice I was sent to this 
school ; where I have told you, ladies, what, 
for fear of ridicule, I never ventured to tell 
any person besides, the story of my foolish and 
naughty fancy. 



THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 



65 



VIII. 
CHARLOTTE WILMOT. 



Until I was eleven years of age, my life was 
one continued series of indulgence and delight. 
My father was a merchant, and supposed to 
be in very opulent circumstances, at least 1 
thought so, for at a very early age I perceived 
that we lived in a more expensive way than 
any of my father's friends did. It was not the 
pride of birth, of which, Miss "Withers, you 
once imagined you might justly boast, but the 
mere display of wealth, that I was early taught 
to set an undue value on. My parents spared 
no costs for masters to instruct me ; I had a 
French governess, and also a woman-servant 
whose sole business it was to attend on me. 
My play-room was crowded with toys, and my 
dress was the admiration of all my youthful 
visitors, to whom I gave balls and entertain- 
ments as often as I pleased. I looked down on 
all my young companions as my inferiors : but 
I chiefly assumed airs of superiority over Maria 
Hartley, whose father was a clerk in my father's 
counting-house, and therefore I concluded she 
would regard the fine show I made with more 
envy and admiration than any other of my 
companions. In the days of my humiliation, 
which I too soon experienced, I was thrown 
on the bounty of her father for support. To 
be a dependant on the charity of her family, 
seemed the heaviest evil that could have be- 
fallen me ; for I remembered how often I 
had displayed my finery and my expensive 
ornaments, on purpose to enjoy the triumph 
of my superior advantages ; and with shame 
I now speak it, I have often glanced at her 
plain linen frock, when I showed her my 
beautiful ball-dresses. Nay, I once gave her 
a hint, which she so well understood that she 
burst into tears, that I could not invite her 
to some of my parties, because her mamma 
once sent her on my birth-day in a coloured 
frock. I cannot now think of my want of 
feeling without excessive pain ; but one day I 
saw her highly amused with some curious toys, 
and on her expressing the pleasure the sight of 
them gave her, I said, " Yes, they are very 
well for those who are not accustomed to these 
things ; but for my part I have so many, I am 
tired of them, and I am quite delighted to 
pass an hour in the empty closet your mamma 
allows you to receive your visitors in, because 
there is nothing there to interrupt the con- 
versation." 



Once, as I have said, Maria was betrayed 
into tears : now that I insulted her by calling 
her own small apartment an empty closet, she 
turned quick upon me, but not in anger, 
saying, " O, my dear Miss Wilmot, how very 

sorry I am " here she stopped : and though 

I knew not the meaning of her words, I felt it 
as a reproof. I hung down my head abashed ; 
yet, perceiving that she was all that day more 
kind and obliging than ever, and being con- 
scious of not having merited this kindness, I 
thought she was mean-spirited, and therefore 
I consoled myself with having discovered this 
fault in her, for I thought my arrogance was 
full as excusable as her meanness. 

In a few days I knew my error ; I learned 
why Maria had been so kind, and why she 
had said she was sorry. It was for me, proud 
disdainful girl that I was, that she was sorry ; 
she knew, though I did not, that my father 
was on the brink of ruin : and it came to pass, 
as she feared it would, that in a few days my 
play-room was as empty as Maria's closet, and 
all my grandeur was at an end. 

My father had what is called an execution 
in the house ; everything was seized that we 
possessed. Our splendid furniture, and even 
our wearing apparel, all my beautiful ball- 
dresses, my trinkets, and my toys, were taken 
away by my father's merciless creditors. The 
week in which this happened was such a scene 
of hurry, confusion, and misery, that I will not 
attempt to describe it. 

At the end of a week I found that my father 
and mother had gone out very early in the 
morning. Mr. Hartley took me home to his 
own house, and I expected to find them there ; 
but, oh, what anguish did I feel, when I heard 
him tell Mrs. Hartley they had quitted Eng- 
land, and that he had brought me home to 
live with them ! In tears and sullen silence, I 
passed the first day of my entrance into this 
despised house. Maria was from home. All 
the day I sate in a corner of the room, grieving 
for the departure of my parents : and if for 
a moment I forgot that sorrow, I tormented 
myself with imagining the many ways which 
Maria might invent, to make me feel in return 
the slights and airs of superiority which I had 
given myself over her. Her mother began the 
prelude to what I expected, for I heard her 
freely censure the imprudence of my parents. 



6G 



CHARLOTTE WILMOT. 



She spoke in whispers : yet, though I could not 
hear every word, I made out the tenor of her 
discourse. She was very anxious, lest her 
husband should be involved in the ruin of our 
house. He was the chief clerk in my father's 
counting-house : towards evening he came in 
and quieted her fears, by the welcome news 
that he had obtained a more lucrative situation 
than the one he had lost. 

At eight in the evening, Mrs. Hartley said 
to me, " Miss Wilmot, it is time for you to 
be in bed, my dear ; " and ordered the servant 
to show me up stairs, adding, that she sup- 
posed she must assist me to undress, but that 
when Maria came home, she must teach me to 
wait on myself. The apartment in which I 
was to sleep, was at the top of the house. The 
walls were white-washed, and the roof was 
sloping. There was only one window in the 
room, a small casement through which the 
bright moon shone, and it seemed to me the 
most melancholy sight I had ever beheld. In 
broken and disturbed slumbers I passed the 
night. When I awoke in the morning, she 
whom I most dreaded to see, Maria, who I 
supposed had envied my former state, and who 
I now felt certain would exult over my present 
mortifying reverse of fortune, stood by my 
bed-side. She awakened me from a dream, in 
which I thought she was ordering me to fetch 
her something ; and on my refusal, she said I 
must obey her, for I was now her servant. 
Far differently from what my dreams had 
pictured, did Maria address me ! She said, 
in the gentlest tone imaginable, " My dear 
Miss Wilmot, my mother begs you will come 
down to breakfast. Will you give me leave 
to dress you?" My proud heart would not 
suffer me to speak, and I began to attempt to 



put on my clothes ; but never having been 
used to do anything for myself, I was unable 
to perform it, and was obliged to accept of 
the assistance of Maria. She dressed me, 
washed my face, and combed my hair ; and as 
she did these services for me, she said in a 
most respectful manner, " Is this the way you 
like to wear this, Miss Wilmot 1 " or, " Is this 
the way you like this done ?" and curtsied as 
she gave me every fresh article to put on. 
The slights I expected to receive from Maria, 
would not have distressed me more than the 
delicacy of her behaviour did. I hung down 
my head with shame and anguish. 

In a few days Mrs. Hartley ordered her 
daughter to instruct me in such useful works 
and employments as Maria knew. Of every 
thing which she called useful I was most 
ignorant. My accomplishments I found were 
held in small estimation here, by all indeed, 
except Maria. She taught me nothing with- 
out the kindest apologies for being obliged to 
teach me, who, she said, was so excellent in all 
elegant arts, and was for ever thanking me for 
the pleasure she had formerly received from 
my skill in music and pretty fancy-works. The 
distress I was in made these complimentary 
speeches, not flatteries, but sweet drops of 
comfort to my degraded heart, almost broken 
with misfortune and remorse. 

I remained at Mr. Hartley's but two months ; 
for at the end of that time my father inherited 
a considerable property by the death of a 
distant relation, which has enabled him to 
settle his affairs. He established himself again 
as a merchant : but as he wished to retrench 
his expenses, and begin the world again on a 
plan of strict economy, he sent me to this 
school to finish my education. 



FIRST GOING TO CHURCH. 



01 



IX. 



SUSAN YATES. 



I was born and brought up in a house in 
which my parents had all their lives resided, 
which stood in the midst of that lonely tract 
of land, called the Lincolnshire Fens. Few 
families besides our own lived near the spot, 
both because it was reckoned an unwholesome 
air, and because its distance from any town or 
market made it an inconvenient situation. My 
father was in no very affluent circumstances, 
and it was a sad necessity which he was put to, 
of having to go many miles to fetch anything 
from the nearest village, which was full seven 
miles distant, through a sad miry way that at 
all times made it heavy walking, and after rain 
was almost impassable. But he had no horse 
or carriage of his own. 

The church which belonged to the parish 
in which our house was situated, stood in this 
village ; and its distance being, as I said be- 
fore, seven miles from our house, made it quite 
an impossible thing for my mother or me to 
think of going to it. Sometimes, indeed, on a 
fine dry Sunday, my father would rise early, 
and take a walk to the village, just to see how 
goodness thrived,^ he used to say; but he would 
generally return tired, and the worse for his 
walk. It is scarcely possible to explain to any 
one who has not lived in the fens what difficult 
and dangerous walking it is. A mile is as 
good as four, I have heard my father say, in 
those parts. My mother, who in the early part 
of her life had lived in a more civilised spot, 
and had been used to constant church-going, 
would often lament her situation. It was from 
her I early imbibed a great curiosity and 
anxiety to see that thing, which I had heard 
her call a church, and so often lament that she 
could never go to. I had seen houses of various 
structures, and had seen in pictures the shapes 
of ships and boats, and palaces and temples, 
but never rightly anything that could be called 
a church, or that could satisfy me about its 
form. Sometimes I thought it must be like 
our house, and sometimes I fancied it must be 
more like the house of our neighbour Mr. 
Sutton, which was bigger and handsomer than 
ours. Sometimes I thought it was a great 
hollow cave, such as I have heard my father 
say the first inhabitants of the earth dwelt in. 
Then I thought it was like a waggon, or a cart, 
and that it must be something moveable. The 
shape of it ran in my mind strangely, and one 



day I ventured to ask my mother, what was that 
foolish thing she was always longing to go to,and 
which she called a church. Was it anything to 
eat or drink, or was it only like a great huge play- 
thing, to be seenand staredat? — Iwasnotquite 
five years of age when I made this inquiry. 

This question, so oddly put, made my mother 
smile ; but in a little time she put on a more 
grave look, and informed me, that a church 
was nothing that I had supposed it, but it was 
a great building, far greater than any house 
which I had seen, where men, and women, and 
children, came together twice a day on Sun- 
days, to hear the Bible read, and make good 
resolutions for the week to come. She told me, 
that the fine music which we sometimes heard 
in the air, came from the bells of St. Mary's 
church, and that we never heard it but when the 
wind was in a particular point. This raised 
my wonder more than all the rest ; for I had 
somehow conceived that thenoisewhichlheard 
was occasioned by birds up in the air, or that 
it was made by the angels, whom (so ignorant 
I was till that time) I had always considered 
to be a sort of birds : for before this time I was 
totally ignorant of anything like religion, it 
being a principle of my father, that young 
heads should not be told too many things at 
once, for fear they should get confused ideas 
and no clear notions of anything. We had al- 
ways indeed so far observed Sundays, that no 
work was done upon that day, and upon that 
day I wore my best muslin frock, and was not 
allowed to sing or to be noisy ; but I never 
understood why that day should differ from any 
other. We had no public meetings : indeed, 
the few straggling houses which were near us, 
would have furnished but a slender congrega- 
tion ; and the loneliness of the place we lived 
in, instead of making us more sociable, and 
drawing us closer together, as my mother used 
to say it ought to have done, seemed to have 
the effect of making us more distant and averse 
to society than other people. One or two good 
neighbours indeed we had, but not in numbers 
to give me an idea of church attendance. 

But now my mother thought it high time to 
give me some clearer instruction in the main 
points of religion, and my father came readily 
into her plan. I was now permitted to sit up 
half an hour later on Sunday evening, that I 
might hear a portion of Scripture read, which 



68 



SUSAN YATES. 



had always been their custom, though by reason 
of my tender age, and my father's opinion on 
the impropriety of children being taught too 
young, I had never till now been an auditor. 
I was taught my prayers, and those things 
which you, ladies, I doubt not, had the benefit 
of being instructed in at a much earlier age. 

The clearer my notions on these points be- 
came, they only made me more passionately 
long for the privilege of joining in that social 
service, from which it seemed that we alone, 
of all the inhabitants of the land, were de- 
barred ; and when the wind was in that point 
which enabled the sound of the distant bells 
of St. Mary's to be heard over the great 
moor which skirted our house, I have stood 
out in the air to catch the sounds, which I 
almost devoured ; and the tears have come into 
my eyes, when sometimes they seemed to 
speak to me almost in articulate sounds, to 
come to church, and because of the great moor, 
which was between me and them, I could not 
come ; and the too tender apprehensions of 
these things have filled me with a religious 
melancholy. With thoughts like these, I en- 
tered into my seventh year. 

And now the time was come, when the great 
moor was no longer to separate me from the 
object of my wishes and of my curiosity. My 
father having some money left him by the will 
of a deceased relation, we ventured to set up a 
sort of a carriage — no very superb one, I assure 
you, ladies ; but in that part of the world it 
was looked upon with some envy by our poorer 
neighbours. The first party of pleasure which 
my father proposed to take in it, was to the 
village where I had so often wished to go, and 
my mother and I were to accompany him ; for 
it was very fit, my father observed, that little 
Susan should go to church, and learn how to 
behave herself, for we might some time or 
other have occasion to live in London, and not 
always be confined to that out-of-the-way spot. 

It was on a Sunday morning that we set out, 
my little heart beating with almost breathless 
expectation. The day was fine, and the roads 
as good as they ever are in those parts. I was 
so happy and so proud ! I was lost in dreams 
of what I was going to see. At length the tall 
steeple of St. Mary's church came in view. It 
was pointed out to me by my father, as the 
place from which that music had come, which I 
had heard over the moor, and had fancied to be 
angels singing. I was wound up to the highest 
pitch of delight, at having visibly presented to 
me the spot from which had proceeded that 
unknown friendly music ; and when it began 
to peal, just as we approached the village, it 
seemed to speak, Susan is come, as plainly as it 
used to invite me to come, when I heard it over 
the moor. I pass over our alighting at the 
house of a relation, and all that passed till I 
went with my father and mother to church. 

St. Mary's church is a great church for such 



a small village as it stands in. My father said 
it had been a cathedral, and that it had once 
belonged to a monastery, but the monks were 
all gone. Over the door there was stone work, 
representing saints and bishops, and here and 
there, along the sides of the church, there were 
figures of men's heads, made in a strange gro- 
tesque way : I have since seen the same sort 
of figures in the round tower of the Temple- 
church in London. My father said they were 
very improper ornaments for such a place, and 
so I now think them ; but it seems the people 
who built these great churches in old times, 
gave themselves more liberties than they do 
now ; and I remember that when I first saw 
them, and before my father had made this ob- 
servation, though they were so ugly and out of 
shape, and some of them seem to be grinning 
and distorting their features with pain or with 
laughter, yet being placed upon a church, to 
which I had come with such serious thoughts, 
I could not help thinking they had some 
serious meaning ; and I looked at them with 
wonder, but without any temptation to laugh. 
I somehow fancied they were the representation 
of wicked people set up as a warning. 

When we got into the church, the service 
was not begun, and my father kindly took me 
round, to show me the monuments and every 
thing else remarkable. I remember seeing one 
of a venerable figure, which my father said had 
been a judge. The figure was kneeling as if it 
was alive, before a sort of desk, with a book, 
I suppose the Bible, lying on it. I somehow 
fancied the figure had a sort of life in it, it 
seemed so natural, or that the dead judge that 
it was done for, said his prayers at it still. 
This was a silly notion, but I was very young, 
and had passed my little life in a remote place, 
where I had never seen anything nor knew 
anything ; and the awe which I felt at first 
being in a church, took from me all power but 
that of wondering. I did not reason about any 
thing ; I was too young. Now I understand 
why monuments are put up for the dead, and 
why the figures which are put upon them are 
described as doing the actions which they did 
in their lifetimes, and that they are a sort of 
pictures set up for our instruction. But all 
was new and surprising to me on that day — 
the long windows with little panes, the pillars, 
the pews made of oak, the little hassocks for 
the people to kneel on, the form of the pulpit, 
with the sounding-board over it, gracefully 
carved in flower-work. To you, who have 
lived all your lives in populous places, and 
have been taken to church from the earliest 
time you can remember, my admiration of 
these things must appear strangely ignorant. 
But I was a lonely young creature, that had 
been brought up in remote places, where there 
was neither church nor church-going inhabit- 
ants. I have since lived in great towns, and 
seen the ways of churches and of worship, and 



THE SEA VOYAGE. 



69 



I am old enough now to distinguish between 
what is essential in religion, and what is 
merely formal or ornamental. 

When my father had done pointing out to 
me the things most worthy of notice about the 
church, the service was almost ready to begin ; 
the parishioners had most of them entered, and 
taken their seats ; and we were shown into a 
pew, where my mother was already seated. 
Soon after, the clergyman entered, and the 
organ began to play what is called the volun- 
tary. I had never seen so many people assem- 
bled before. At first I thought that all eyes 
were upon me, and that because I was a 
stranger. I was terribly ashamed and con- 
fused at first ; but my mother helped me to 
find out the places in the Prayer-book, and 
being busy about that took off some of my 
painful apprehensions. I was no stranger to 
the order of the service, having often read in 
the Prayer-book at home ; but my thoughts 
being confused, it piizzled me a little to find 
out the responses and other things, which I 
thought I knew so well ; but I went through 
it tolerably well. One thing which has often 
troubled me since, is, that I am afraid I was 
too full of myself, and of thinking how happy 
I was, and what a privilege it was for one that 
was so young, to join in the service with so 



many grown people, so that I did not attend 
enough to the instruction which I might have 
received. I remember, I foolishly applied every 
thing that was said to myself, so as it could 
mean nobody but myself, I was so full of my 
own thoughts. All that assembly of people 
seemed to me as if they were come together 
only to show me the way of a church. Not 
but I received some very affecting impressions 
from some things which I heard that day : but 
the standing up and the sitting down of the 
people ; the organ ; the singing : — the way 
of all these things took up more of my atten- 
tion than was proper ; or I thought it did. I 
believe I behaved better and was more serious 
when I went a second time, and a third time : 
for now we went as a regular thing every Sun- 
day, and continued to do so, till by a still fur- 
ther change for the better in my father's cir- 
cumstances, we removed to London. Oh ! it 
was a happy day for me my first going to St. 
Mary's church ; before that day I used to feel 
like a little outcast in the wilderness, like one 
that did not belong to the world of Christian 
people. I have never felt like a little outcast 
since. But I never can hear the sweet noise of 
bells, that I don't think of the angels singing, 
and what poor but pretty thoughts I had of 
angels in my uninstructed solitude. 



X. 



ARABELLA HARDY. 



I was born in the East Indies. I lost my 
father and mother young. At the age of five, 
my relations thought it proper that I should be 
sent to England for my education, I was to 
be entrusted to the care of a young woman 
who had a character for great humanity and 
discretion ; but just as I had taken leave of 
my friends, and we were about to take our 
passage, the young woman suddenly fell sick, 
and could not go on board. In this unpleasant 
emergency, no one knew how to act. The ship 
was at the very point of sailing, and it was the 
last which was to sail for the season. At length 
the captain, who was known to my friends, pre- 
vailed upon my relation who had come with us 
to see us embark, to leave the young woman on 
shore, and to let me embark separately. There 
was no possibility of getting any other female 
attendant for me, in the short time allotted for 
our preparation ; and the opportunity of going 
by that ship was thought too valuable to be 
lost. No other ladies happened to be going, 
and so I was consigned to the care of the cap- 
tain and his crew — rough and , unaccustomed 
attendants for a young creature, delicately 



brought up as I had been ; but indeed they 
did their best to make me not feel the differ- 
ence. The unpolished sailors were my nursery- 
maids and my waiting-women. Everything 
was done by the captain and the men to accom- 
modate me, and make me easy. I had a little 
room made out of the cabin, which was to be 
considered as my room, and nobody might enter 
into it. The first mate had a great character 
for bravery, and all sailor-like accomplish- 
ments ; but with all this he had a gentleness 
of manners, and a pale, feminine cast of face, 
from ill health and a weakly constitution, 
which subjected him to some ridicule from the 
officers, and caused him to be named Betsy. 
He did not much like the appellation, but he 
submitted to it the better, saying that those 
who gave him a woman's name, well knew 
that he had a man's heart, and that in the face 
of danger he would go as far as any man. To 
this young man, whose real name was Charles 
Atkinson, by a lucky thought of the captain, 
the care of me was especially entrusted. Betsy 
was proud of his charge, and, to do him justice, 
acquitted himself with great diligence and 



70 



ARABELLA HARDY. 



adroitness through the whole of the voyage. 
From the beginning I had somehow looked 
upon Betsy as a woman, hearing him so spoken 
of, and this reconciled me in some measure to 
the want of a maid, which I had been used to. 
But I was a manageable girl at all times, and 
gave nobody much trouble. 

I have not knowledge enough to give an 
account of my voyage, or to remember the 
names of the seas we passed through, or the 
lands which we touched upon, in our course. 
The chief thing I can remember (for I do not 
recollect the events of the voyage in any 
order), was Atkinson taking me upon deck, to 
see the great whales playing about in the sea. 
There was one great whale came bounding up 
out of the sea, and then he would dive into it 
again, and then he would come up at a distance 
where nobody expected him, and another 
whale was following after him. Atkinson said 
they were at play, and that the lesser whale 
loved that bigger whale, and kept it company 
all through the wide seas : but I thought it 
strange play, and a frightful kind of love : for 
I every minute expected they would come up 
to our ship and toss it. But Atkinson said a 
whale was a gentle creature, and it was a sort 
of sea-elephant, and that the most powerful 
creatures in nature are always the least hurtful. 
And he told me how men went out to take 
these whales, and stuck long pointed darts into 
them ; and how the sea was discoloured with 
the blood of these poor whales for many miles' 
distance : and I admired the courage of the 
men, but I was sorry for the inoffensive 
whale. Many other pretty sights he used to 
show me, when he was not on watch, or doing 
some duty for the ship. No one was more 
attentive to his duty than he ; but at such 
times as he had leisure, he would show me all 
pretty sea-sights ; — the dolphins and porpoises 
that came before a storm, and all the colours 
which the sea changed to : how sometimes it 
was a deep blue, and then a deep green, and 
sometimes it would seem all on fire ; all these 
various appearances he would show me, and 
attempt to explain the reason of them to me, 
as well as my young capacity would admit of. 
There was a lion and a tiger on board, going to 
England as a present to the king ; and it was a 
great diversion to Atkinson and me, after I had 
got rid of my first terrors, to see the ways of 
these beasts in their dens, and how venturous 
the sailors were in putting their hands through 
the grates, and patting their rough coats. Some 
of the men had monkeys, which ran loose 
about, and the sport was for the men to lose 
them, and find them again. The monkeys 
would run up the shrouds, and pass from rope 
to rope, with ten times greater alacrity than 
the most experienced sailor could follow them ; 
and sometimes they would hide themselves in 
the most unthought-of places, and when they 
were found, they would grin, and make mouths, 



as if they had sense. Atkinson described to 
me the ways of these little animals in their 
native woods, for he had seen them. Oh, how 
many ways he thought of to amuse me in that 
long voyage ! 

Sometimes he would describe to me the odd 
shapes and varieties of fishes that were in the 
sea, and tell me tales of the sea-monsters that 
lay hid at the bottom, and were seldom seen 
by men ; and what a glorious sight it would be, 
if our eyes could be sharpened to behold all the 
inhabitants of the sea at once, swimming in 
the great deeps, as plain as we see the gold and 
silver fish in a bowl of glass. With such 
notions he enlarged my infant capacity to take 
in many things. 

"When in foul weather I have been terrified 
at the motion of the vessel, as it rocked back- 
wards and forwards, he would still my fears, 
and tell me that I used to be rocked so once 
in a cradle, and that the sea was God's bed, and 
the ship our cradle, and we were as safe in 
that greater motion, as when we felt that lesser 
one in our little wooden sleeping-places. 
When the wind was up, and sang through the 
sails, and disturbed me with its violent 
clamours, he would call it music, and bid me 
hark to the sea-organ, and with that name he 
quieted my tender apprehensions. When I 
have looked around with a mournful face at 
seeing all men about me, he would enter into 
my thoughts, and tell me pretty stories of his 
mother and his sisters, and a female cousin 
that he loved better than his sisters, whom he 
called Jenny, and say that when we got to 
England I should go and see them, and how 
fond Jenny would be of his little daughter, as 
he called me ; and with these images of women 
and females which he raised in my fancy, he 
quieted me for a while. One time, and never 
but once, he told me that Jenny had promised 
to be his wife if ever he came to England, but 
that he had his doubts whether he should live 
to get home, for he was very sickly. This made 
me cry bitterly. 

That I dwell so long upon the attention of 
this Atkinson, is only because his death, which 
happened just before we got to England, 
affected me so much, that he alone of all the 
ship's crew has engrossed my mind ever since ; 
though indeed the captain and all were singu- 
larly kind to me, and strove to make up for my 
uneasy and unnatural situation. The boat- 
swain would pipe for my diversion, and the 
sailor-boy would climb the dangerous mast for 
my sport. The rough foremast-man would, 
never willingly appear before me, till he had 
combed his long black hair smooth and sleek, 
not to terrify me. The officers got up a sort 
of play for my amusement, and Atkinson, or 
as they called him, Betsy, acted the heroine of 
the piece. All ways that could be contrived 
were thought upon, to reconcile me to my lot. 
I was the universal favourite : I do not know 



THE SEA VOYAGE. 



71 



how deservedly ; but I suppose it was because 
I was alone, and there was no female in the 
ship besides me. Had I come over with 
female relations or attendants, I should have 
excited no particular curiosity ; I should have 
required no uncommon attentions. I was one 
little woman among a crew of men ; and I 
believe the homage which I have read that men 
universally pay to women, was in this case 
directed to me, in the absence of all other 
womankind. I do not know how that might 
be, but I was a little princess among them, 
and I was not six years old. 

I remember the first drawback which hap- 
pened to my comfort was Atkinson's not appear- 
ing the whole of one day. The captain tried 
to reconcile me to it, by saying that Mr. Atkin- 
son was confined to his cabin ; that he was not 
quite well, but a day or two would restore him. 
I begged to be taken in to see him, but this 
was not granted. A day, and then another 
came, and another, and no Atkinson was visi- 
ble, and I saw apparent solicitude in the faces 
of all the officers, who nevertheless strove to 
put on their best countenances before me, and 
to be more than usually kind to me. At length, 
by the desire of Atkinson himself, as I have 
since learned, I was permitted to go into his 
cabin and see him. He was sitting up, appa- 
rently in a state of great exhaustion ; but his 
face lighted up when he saw me, and he kissed 
me, and told me that he was going a great 
voyage, far longer than that which we had 
passed together, and he should never come 
back ; and though I was so young, I understood 
well enough that he meant this of his death, 
and I cried sadly ; but he comforted me, and 
told me, that I must he his little executrix, 
and perform his last will, and bear his last 
words to his mother and his sisters, and to his 
cousin Jenny, whom I should see in a short 
time ; and he gave me his blessing, as a father 
would bless his child, and he sent a last kiss by 
me to all his female relations, and he made me 
promise that I would go and see them when I 



got to England, and soon after this he died ; 
but I was in another part of the ship when he 
died, and I was not told it till we got to shore, 
which was a few days after : but they kept 
telling me that he was better and better, and 
that I should soon see him, but that it disturbed 
him to talk with any one. Oh, what a grief it 
was, when I learned that I had lost an old ship- 
mate, that had made an irksome situation so 
bearable by his kind assiduities ; and to think 
that he was gone, and I could never repay him 
for his kindness ! 

When I had been a year and a half in Eng- 
land, the captain, who had made another voyage 
to India and back, thinking that time had alle- 
viated a little the sorrow of Atkinson's rela- 
tions, prevailed upon my friends who had the 
care of me in England, to let him introduce 
me to Atkinson's mother and sisters. Jenny 
was no more ; she had died in the interval ; 
and I never saw her. Grief for his death had 
brought on a consumption, of which she lingered 
about a twelvemonth, and then expired. But 
in the mother and the sisters of this excellent 
young man, I have found the most valuable 
friends I possess on this side the great ocean. 
They received me from the captain as the 
little protege, of Atkinson, and from them I have 
learned passages of his former life ; and this in 
particular, that the illness of which he died 
was brought on by a wound of which he never 
quite recovered, which he got in the desperate 
attempt, when he was quite a boy, to defend 
his captain against a superior force of the 
enemy which had boarded him, and which, by 
his premature valour, inspiriting the men, they 
finally succeeded in repulsing. This was that 
Atkinson, who, from his pale and feminine ap- 
pearance, was called Betsy : this was he whose 
womanly care of me got him the name of a 
woman ; who, with more than female attention, 
condescended to play the handmaid to a little 
unaccompanied orphan, that fortune had cast 
upon the care of a rough sea captain and his 
rougher crew. 



THE END. 



LONDON : 
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRJARS. 



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